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OF  CALIFORNIA 

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HO 

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LAURA  CREICHTON 


BY 

ELINOR  MORDAUNT 

Author  of 
'Old  Wine  in  New  Bottles,"  "The  Little  Soul,"  etc. 


BOSTON 

SMALL,  MAYNARD   &  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYBIGHT,    1B22 

BT  SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY 

(INCORPORATED) 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


THE   MURRAY    PRINTING    COMPANY 
CAMBRIDGE,   MAHS. 


-PR, 
>OZL 

Mini 


TO 

MT   VERT   GOOD   FRIEND 

MR.   CURTIS  BROWN 


16924 


LAURA  CREICHTON 


CHAPTER  I 

HENRY  THE  EIGHTH,  bluff  King  Hal,  and  Catharine  of  Ara- 
gon  went  a-maying  upon  Shooters'  Hill. 

To-day  the  may-trees  are  incorporated  with  trim  hedges, 
urban  lawns.  But  for  all  that,  they  are  still  there:  flowing 
over  the  top  of  the  hill,  cropping  up  amid  the  crowded  villas 
and  model  dwellings  which  cluster  about  the  foot  of  it; 
petering  out,  tamed  and  enclosed,  along  the  road  to  Black- 
neath;  all  amid  the  gardens  of  St.  John's  Park,  running  a 
little,  even,  into  Plumstead;  but  free  at  last,  altogether  wild 
and  free,  adown  the  slopes  of  Greenwich  Park:  great 
posies  of  rose-red  and  white,  brilliant  and  artless,  intertwined 
with  the  sombre  tapestry  of  Spanish  chestnuts. 

Stand  on  the  top  01  Shooters'  Hill  upon  a  sunny  day  in 
the  latter  end  of  May,  or  during  the  first  week  in  June,  and 
everywhere  there  is  sheeted  hawthorn,  fruit-blossom,  labur- 
num, lilac;  great  rounded  masses  of  trees — sycamore  and 
beech  and  elm;  tight  bouquets  of  gardens,  pierced  by  slender 
steeples.  Away  to  the  south  and  the  east  are  small,  bright, 
green  fields;  while  to  the  north  and  the  west  the  wavering 
riband  of  the  Thames — looping  around  the  Isle  of  Dogs  so 
that  the  masts  of  the  ships  seem  to  spring  up  along  the  streets 
— loses  itself  in  that  deepening  bluish  blur  that  is  London;  the 
whole  overhung  with  a  silvery  sheen,  half-smoke,  half 
river-mist. 

London,  London  proper — blue  haze  of  the  early  morning, 
or  deep  periwinkle-blue  of  noontide  heat:  the  pillar  of  smoke 
by  day,  glowing,  still  smoky,  gold  and  crimson  at  night,  is 
of  the  very  essence  of  the  world;  is,  indeed,  the  world  itself — 
an  amazing  blend.  Her  wandering  sons  and  daughters, 
returning  to  her,  swinging  through  her  streets  on  the  tops  of 
busses,  threading  the  traffic  in  taxis,  feeling  their  ears  beaten 
upon  by  the  old  familiar  roar  of  sound,  sniffing  up  the  old 
familiar  smells,  exclaim  that  it  is  good  to  be  home  again, 

5 


6  LAURA  CREICHTON 

"  London,  dear  old  London !  there  is  nowhere  like 
London!  "  While  in  the  deep-bosomed  country — downs, 
moorland,  pasture,  woodland — they  whisper  of  "  England, 
my  England!  " 

But  they  are  wrong,  all  wrong:  any  great  town  is  much 
the  same.  If  the  world  were  destroyed  and  re-created,  all 
the  greed,  lust,  love  of  gain,  comfort,  show,  the  fierce  struggle 
between  those  who  have  and  those  who  wish  to  have,  would 
gather,  swell,  and  heat  into  just  some  such  immense  inflam- 
matory growth — a  second  London!  As  to  the  country,  there 
are  bits  of  England  to  be  found  in  pretty  well  every  corner 
of  the  world:  "  How  like  Devonshire!  "  we  will  exclaim, 
"  Why,  that  might  be  a  bit  of  the  New  Forest,"  that  "  a 
scrap  of  the  Cornish  coast."  And  this  we  regard  as  the  very 
highest  possible  form  of  praise,  in  the  same  way  as  some 
women  praising  a  flower  declare  that  it  might  be  made  of 
wax;  or  extol  a  fine  landscape  by  a  thin,  "  Pretty  as  a 
picture!  " 

England  is  belittled  by  comparison:  it  robs  her  of  what  is 
her  own,  brings  her  down  to  the  common  level.  For  upon 
one  point  she  is,  and  will  forever  remain,  totally  and  entirely 
unique.  We  miss  this  out,  this  wonder;  step  over  it,  brush 
it  aside,  are  contemptuous  and  a  little  ashamed;  regarding 
it  as  a  sort  of  No  Man's  Land — and  yet  it  is  this  which  is 
England's  self:  the  very  essence  of  England:  incomparable 
with  anything  else  in  the  whole  wide  world — Suburbia! 

Let  us  make  our  best  bow  to  Suburbia;  cherish  it  in  our 
hearts  when  we  are  away  from  it — and  most  of  all  when  we 
are  away  from  it. 

It  is  like  a  cholera-belt;  it  is  like  a  ring-fence;  guarding 
the  vital  organs  of  its  nation,  setting  a  seal  upon  property;  it 
is  the  breeding-place  of  great  men  and  great  mothers.  From 
the  suburbs  sons  and  husbands  flow  forth  like  a  tidal  river, 
breasting,  mingling  with  and  using  for  their  own  ends  the 
sea  of  commerce;  from  here  scholars,  men  of  science  and 
learning,  engineers,  architects,  even — and  this  is  almost 
incredible — explorers  fare  forth,  making  their  mark  upon  the 
world,  changing,  disturbing,  perhaps  even  improving.  From 
here,  stung  by  some  queer  smart  of  atavism,  like  a  germ  in  the 
blood — from  amidst  all  this  smug  trimness,  lace  curtains, 
flower-beds,  summer  chintz  and  winter  saddle-back,  parlour- 
maids and  afternoon  callers — youth  has  heard  and  followed  the 
old  siren  voice  of  the  sea.  From  the  suburb  to  the  South  Pole — 
the  thing  is  not  unknown;  it  is,  indeed,  an  actual  fact! 


LAURA  CREICHTON  7 

As  for  the  women,  they  housekeep.  That  also  is  a  sacred 
vocation  which  is  sniffed  upon — like  the  suburbs  themselves — 
and  this  is  the  worst  of  our  Englishman:  he  is  never  proud  of 
what  he  ought  to  be  proud  of;  for  what  is  better,  can  be  better, 
than  the  housekeeper  who  is  also  a  homekeeper? 

Look  at  the  independent  woman,  the  business  woman,  the 
bachelor  woman:  what  good  does  she  ever  do  to  the  race,  or, 
in  the  end — buried  alive  in  a  mausoleum  of  a  boarding-house 
— to  herself?  No,  no;  it  is  the  women  who  pour  out  the 
coffee  at  breakfast,  and  give  the  orders  to  the  cook,  take  the 
dog  for  a  walk,  interview  the  tradesmen,  pay  the  books,  and 
put  up  their  feet  after  luncheon  for  half  an  hour's  nap,  with 
the  daily  paper  open  on  their  knees,  who  make  Suburbia,  who 
make  England. 

There  was  once  a  violinist — a  genius,  a  real  discovery! — 
who  played  divinely,  lifting  people  out  of  themselves  so 
completely  that  they  even  forgot  to  whisper,  rustle  their 
programmes.  At  the  end  of  his  first  great  concert,  when  his 
admirers  crowded  round  him,  congratulating,  praising,  with 
their  exclamations  of  "  Divine !  "  "  Wonderful !  "  he  brushed 
them  all  aside  brusquely: 

"Oh  yes,  yes,  I  know  that!  But  what  about  my  bows? 
Come,  now,  what  did  you  think  of  my  bows?  " 

We're  like  that,  we  English:  forever  striking  attitudes, 
buccaneering,  bluff,  adventurous;  imagining  ourselves  as  the 
same  sort  of  people  as  those  who  went  a-maying  with  Hal  and 
his  bride  upon  Shooters'  Hill. 

We  still  go  a-maying,  adventuring:  but  we  go  out  to  it; 
we  do  not  live  in  the  midst  of  it,  so  it's  no  good  pretending 
that  we  do.  Only  look  how  little  mark  the  war  has  set  upon 
us.  We  are  even  now  growing  shy  of  speaking  of  it,  as  of 
something  theatrical,  a  period  of  our  lives  during  which  we 
were  not  altogether  ourselves.  The  war!  Why,  the  war 
was  declared  over  and  done  with,  not  by  armistice,  not  by  the 
signing  of  the  Peace  Treaty,  not  by  the  ceremonies  round 
the  Cenotaph  and  in  Westminster  Abbey  in  the  autumn  of 
nineteen-twenty,  but  from  that  moment  when  the  sound  of 
the  muffin-man's  bell  was  once  again  heard  in  the  land. 

By  the  early  spring  of  the  following  year  the  last  potato 
had  disappeared  from  the  last  lawn,  as  irreproachably 
smooth-shaven  as  though  the  Motherland  had  never  even 
attempted  to  prove  herself,  loudly  proclaimed  herself,  as  self- 
supporting. 

It  was  a  mild  and  early  spring.    By  the  beginning  of  the 


8  LAURA  CREICHTON 

last  week  in  May,  Shooters'  Hill,  Greenwich,  Blackheath. 
Eltham,  Sidcup,  Chislehurst  were  as  be-posied  as  a  bevy  of 
Victorian  debutantes. 

It  was  so  hot  that  Laura  Creichton,  who  had  been  playing 
tennis  at  the  Hendersons',  wearing  white  for  the  first  time 
that  year,  pleated  serge  skirt  and  transparent  muslin  blouse, 
was  still  swinging  her  knitted  rose-pink  silk  coat  in  her  hand, 
along  with  her  racquet  and  tennis-shoes,  as  she  came  out  of 
the  gate  at  seven  o'clock. 

"  Better  put  your  coat  on,  my  dear ;  one's  so  apt  to  take 
cold  when  one's  overheated."  That's  what  Mrs.  Henderson 
had  said,  repeating  one  of  those  formulae  which  seem  to  thicken 
like  a  sort  of  lichen  over  mothers  of  forty  or  more. 

"  Oh,  but  I'm  simply  boiling,  Mrs.  Henderson !     And  I 
shall  have  to  run  like  blazes!     Seven  o'clock,  and  such  a  fuss 
if  I'm  late  for  dinner!    If  only  that  silly  ass  Marjorie  hadn't 
smashed  up  my  bike — I'm  lost  without  my  bike!  " 
"  There's  the  bus." 

"Yes,  if  it  just  happens  to  be  the  right  moment — if  not. 
it's  quicker  to  walk.  Good-bye,  everybody,  good-bye — 
good-bye — a  topping  afternoon.  Thanks  awfully!  " 

She  waved  her  racquet,  running  down  the  hill;  the  as- 
sembled Hendersons,  mother,  two  daughters,  and  a  son  at 
the  Military  Academy,  "  the  Shop,"  as  youth  chooses  to  call  it 
slightingly,  waving  and  shouting  in  return:  something 
about  remembering  next  Sunday,  and  Friday  tennis  at  the 
McCullochs,  remembering  this  and  that;  including  the  one- 
twenty-five  train  for  the  matinee  next  Wednesday,  supposing 
that  they  could  get  seats. 

"  What  a  kid  she  is!  "  remarked  Mary  Henderson,  turning 
aside  and  slipping  her  arm  through  her  mother's,  for  she  went 
in  for  mothering  her  mother,  treating  her  as  a  very  old  woman, 
on  the  verge  of  senile  decay,  while  Betty  muttered  something 
to  the  effect  of  there  always  being  a  fuss  about  everything  in  a 
girl's  own  home;  that  was  the  worst  of  sticking  at  home,  one 
couldn't  live  one's  own  life.  Why  should  poor  Laura  run 
herself  to  death  because  old  Creichton  wanted  his  dinner 
precisely  at  half -past  seven?  On  a  summer's  evening,  too, 
an  evening  like  this! 

"  Betty,  my  dear,  you  know "  began  Mrs.  Henderson 

in  a  hurt  voice;  but  Mary  pinched  her  arm,  gently  propelling 
her  along  with  her. 

"  What's  the  use  of  taking  any  notice  of  Betty?  She 
always  has  a  grievance,  wouldn't  be  happy  if  she  hadn't; 


LAURA  CREICHTON  9 

wants  everyone  else  to  have  one,  too.  Just  like  the 
Irish." 

"What  the  devil  would  she  do  if  she  was  me? — never  a 
dashed  moment  to  myself,"  grumbled  Philip;  but  he  was 
smiling  as  he  spoke,  thinking  of  Laura.  What  a  mug  she 
was!  "A  jolly  nice  mug,"  for  all  that. 

They  all  grumbled;  it  was  not  even  principle,  just  a 
habit;  but  for  all  that  they  were  perfectly  satisfied  with 
themselves,  with  life  as  it  came  to  them:  they  had  their  own 
set  and  were  as  good  as  anyone  in  it.  Other  people  were 
outsiders  or  swells,  and  did  not  touch  them;  instinctively 
they  shied  away  from  anything  that  was  queer  or  disturbing, 
anything  which  called  for  thought:  a  clear-eyed,  healthy, 
rather  stupid  family;  of  that  kind  which  has  a  way  of  rising 
to  any  sort  of  real  emergency. 

Laura  Creichton  was  not  satisfied  with  herself,  and  in  this 
alone  she  differed  from  the  Hendersons.  They  were  faintly 
dissatisfied  with  everyone  apart  from  their  individual  selves, 
while  she  thought  other  people  rather  wonderful,  was  always 
trying  to  mould  herself  upon  them,  even  the  people  in 
books,  and  lamentably  failing,  lamentably  remaining  the 
same — just  Laura.  She  had  wanted  to  be  deeply  religious, 
not  to  care  for  worldly  things;  that  had  been  at  the  time  of 
her  confirmation;  then  to  be  hard  and  brilliant,  a  sort  of 
adventuress;  then  to  be  noble;  then  to  be  clever — a  famous 
pianist,  a  writer:  to  be  of  importance,  to  have  people  glance 
at  each  other  and  whisper  when  she  came  into  a  room: 

"  That's  Miss  Creichton,  Miss  Laura  Creichton — the  Miss 
Creichton." 

Above  all,  she  wanted  to  be  dignified,  indifferent:  this 
desire  alone  persisted;  not  to  let  other  people  see  when  they 
hurt  her,  not  to  seem  to  care.  Fancy  feeling  the  colour  flood 
her  face,  a  lump  rise  in  her  throat,  because  a  boy  like  Philip 
Henderson,  a  mere  boy,  had  called  her  a  "silly  Juggins"  when 
she  bungled  two  serves,  lost  the  game!  If  she  had  been 
dignified,  if  she  had  been  as  she  ought  to  have  been,  able  to 
keep  people  in  their  places,  no  one  would  ever  dare  to  say  such 
things.  She  could  have  done  as  she  pleased,  like  that  superb 
Miss  Farquharson,  who  could  not  play  for  nuts,  served  silly 
little  "  unders "  like  a  kid,  and  was  yet  treated  with  the 
greatest  respect,  for  the  simple  reason  that  she  did  not  in  the 
very  least  mind  spoiling  a  game;  just  walked  over  other 
people  and  their  feelings. 

Why,  she,  Laura,  had  even  been  servile  enough  to  feel 


10  LAURA  CREICHTON 

pleased,  comforted  because  at  the  end  of  the  lost  game  Philip 
had  grinned  at  her,  remarked  in  a  friendly  fashion — forgiving 
her!: 

"My  hat!  Of  all  the  mugs,  Laura!  To  muck  up  both 
those  serves!  All  the  same,  never  mind — I  rather  like  you." 

She  had  no  idea  that  to  himself  Philip  said,  "  I  love  her. 
My  word,  how  I  love  her!  " — thought  her  hair,  her  eyes,  her 
colouring  absolutely  "  It  ";  was  desperately  afraid  of  showing 
his  feelings. 

Fancy  anyone  daring  to  say  "  I  rather  like  you !  " — that 
"rather"  how  insulting!  If  she  were  dignified,  if  she  were 
dark  instead  of  fair,  if  she  were  not  so  gawky,  everything 
would  be  different. 

"  The  Miss  Creichton !  "  Why,  only  that  afternoon  she 
had  heard  a  sort  of  breath  on  her  arrival,  ushered  in  by  the 
Henderson's  parlour-maid:  a  breath  of  relief,  but  still,  that 
made  no  difference. 

"Oh,  it's  only  Laura.     After  all!     Only  Laura!  " 

It  seemed  as  though  these  words  were  forever  in  her  ears; 
though  there  was  something  even  worse  than  this — "  Little 
Miss  Creichton." 

"  Little,"  and  yet  gawky,  five  foot  seven,  and  still  growing. 
It  must  be  something  in  herself.  It  was,  Marjorie  said  so: 
Marjorie,  two  years  younger  than  herself  and  still  at  school: 
likely  to  be  for  another  two  years;  for  Laura  herself  was, 
even  yet,  not  properly  out. 

"  If  you  are  insignificant,  you  are  insignificant.  It 
doesn't  matter  how  rich  you  are,  or  how  tall  you  are,  or  how 
much  a  swell,  titles,  or  anything  of  that  sort;  even  if  you're 
the  King.  Why,  that's  what's  wrong  with  the  King;  he's 
insignificant!  There's  no  changing  it;  it's  like  a  crooked 
nose." 

"  No  changing."  At  the  back  of  her  mind  Laura  believed 
Marjorie  to  be  right;  at  least  in  reference  to  herself.  In 
regard  to  other  people  she  did  not  feel  quite  so  certain: 
Marjorie  was  so  sweeping,  she  came  such  awful  croppers 
with  her  assertions:  that  about  the  King,  for  instance! 
When  Laura,  who  was  fiercely  loyal,  flared  up  at  this,  she 
said: 

"  Oh,  well,  it  just  all  depends  upon  your  point  of  view." 

But  there  were  other  cases  where  her  mistakes  could  be 
definitely  brought  home  to  her.  There  was,  for  instance,  that 
declaration  that  Mrs.  Carlton  was  a  widow,  because  of  what 
she,  Marjorie,  chose  to  call  her  "  catch-as-catch-can "  ex- 


LAURA  CREICHTON  11 

pression:  actually  telling  everyone  that  she  was  a  widow  from 
the  day  she  took  the  Hermitage. 

"  You  don't  want  to  leave  any  gentlemen's  cards;  she's 
a  widow,  you  know,"  she  would  explain  to  anyone  who  spoke 
of  calling  upon  the  newcomer. 

And  all  the  while,  Mr.  Carlton  was  no  farther  away  than 
Scotland;  back  with  his  wife  before  the  end  of  her  first 
month  of  sojourn  at  Blackheath. 

"  Mrs.  Carlton's  got  her  brother-in-law  staying  with  her." 
That  was  what  Marjorie  said;  sticking  to  it,  too;  then,  when 
husband  and  wife  returned  Lady  Creichton's  call,  blurting 
it  out  rudely: 

"Why,  I  thought  you  were  dead!" — regarding  Mr. 
Carlton's  existence,  proving  her  wrong,  as  a  sort  of  insult; 
something  wilful,  augmented  by  his  laughter. 

Marjorie  had  been  wrong  there,  and  more  than  wrong — 
ridiculous.  Of  course  she  often  was  wrong.  In  the  matter 
of  changing  or  not  changing,  for  instance:  one  only  had  to 
set  one's  mind  to  it  and  one  could  do  what  one  liked  with 
oneself. 

Laura  bought  books  on  "  Human  Magnetism,"  "  Character- 
Building,"  and  "  The  Triumph  of  Personality."  In  addition 
to  these  she  read  "  Mental  Efficiency,"  by  Mr.  Arnold  Bennett, 
which  did  not  help  her  much,  as  the  author  seemed  to  be 
engrossed  in  telling  of  himself  and  the  sort  of  life  he  led,  which 
would  not  have  fitted  in  at  all  with  the  Creichton  household; 
and  Mr.  Benjamin  Kidd's  "  Science  of  Power,"  which  appalled 
her  with  its  ideal,  or  so  she  read  it,  of  a  world  entirely  domi- 
nated by  women. 

Anyhow,  all  these  books  seemed  to  hinge  upon  not  caring 
what  other  people  thought,  and  this  was  the  one  thing  which 
she,  Laura,  really  did  care  for,  more  than  anything  else  in 
the  world:  not  what  they  thought  about  things  in  general, 
for  she  never  condemned,  seldom  criticised — Marjorie  always 
said,  "  Laura  has  no  standards,"  sometimes,  even,  "  Laura 
has  no  morals  " — but  what  they  thought  about  her,  if  they 
liked  her. 

She  remembered,  running  down  Shooters'  Hill,  how  she 
had  felt  when  Philip  said,  '"  Never  mind;  I  rather  like  you," 
and  her  face  crimsoned.  She  was  like  a  little  dog,  wagging 
its  tail,  cringing!  And,  after  all,  she  had  no  opinion  whatever 
of  Philip:  he  was  good  at  Rugger,  but  his  tennis  was  even 
worse  than  hers. 

Why,  Florrie,  their  own  housemaid,  had  upset  her  only 


12  LAURA  CREICHTON 

that  afternoon  by  saying:  "  It  seems  as  'ow  anyone  wants  a 
bit  more  colour  for  wearing  cream.  Rose-pink,  now,  there's 
nuffin'  like  pink  for  brightening  you  up,  Miss  Laura.  That 
there  jumper  o'  yours,  now!  " 

Laura  had  an  instinctive  feeling  that  she  looked  nice  in 
white;  not  dead-white,  but  the  creamy  tint  of  serge,  and 
muslin  that  was  not  "  book  "  but  Indian.  The  wearing  of  it 
pleased  her,  made  her  feel  in  harmony  with  herself;  while 
rose-pink — any  pink  excepting  the  faintest  blush — took  every 
bit  of  colour  out  of  her.  That  was  the  true  reason  for  carrying 
her  coat  in  her  hand;  and  yet  Florrie's  remark  had  blurred 
over  this  judgment,  had  spoilt  her  pleasure  in  that  afternoon's 
toilet.  Perhaps  she  did  not  look  nice  in  creamy-white,  after 
all:  perhaps  she  never  could  look  nice  in  anything! 

She  had  arrived  at  the  Hendersons'  in  a  state  of  the  deepest 
depression,  no  way  relieved  by  that  "  Only  Laura."  Very 
likely  people  hated  to  see  her  in  the  same  way  as  one  hated 
the  sight  of  some  sorts  of  food.  There  was  a  man  in  the 
Ordnance — only  the  Ordnance,  luckily — who  had  asked  to  be 
introduced  to  her  three  times.  Oh,  well,  no  wonder! — fair 
people  were  all  alike.  A  friend  of  Marjorie's  who  was  working 
at  the  Blackheath  Art  School  had  desired  to  paint  her  por- 
trait, and  given  it  up  in  despair. 

"  Somehow  or  other,  there  seems  nothing  to  get  hold  of  in 
your  face;  unless  it's  your  eyebrows,  and  one  can't  make  a 
portrait  of  eyebrows!  " — that's  what  she  had  said. 

And  the  worst  of  it  was,  it  was  true;  though  only  half  the 
truth.  For  it  was  that  very  quality  of  elusiveness,  the 
quality  which  had  made  Beatrice  Hargreaves  anxious  to  take 
her  portrait,  then  driven  her  to  give  it  up  in  despair  and  pique, 
which  was  one-half  the  charm  of  Laura's  broad-browed, 
heart-shaped  face,  so  softly  modelled  and  rounded;  the 
flaxen  fair  hair,  gold  where  it  sprang  from  the  forehead,  and 
then  the  colour  of  ripe  oats;  the  eyes,  palish-grey  and  gold; 
all  the  shadows  pearly-tinted;  the  smooth  lips,  the  under  one 
a  little  too  full,  pale  and  folded;  the  eyebrows  alone  decided, 
too  finely  marked  to  catch  the  first  casual  glance,  and  yet 
capturing  the  memory,  focussing  the  whole  face;  absolutely 
black,  with  a  long  sweeping  curve  of  that  sort  which  might 
have  been  added  by  a  Chinese  artist,  with  Indian  ink  and  a 
very  long-haired  brush,  widish  at  the  very  beginning,  like 
some  miniature  bird's  wing,  and  then  tailing  off,  distinct  and 
finished  to  the  very  end. 

It  was  horrid  to  have  eyebrows  like  that  with  fair  hair. 


LAURA  CREICHTON  13 

Laura  was  certain  that  people  must  think  she  blacked  them: 
girls  at  Marjorie's  school — they  had  shared  a  governess  until 
Laura  was  grown-up — had  said  as  much,  according  to  Marjorie, 
who  always  repeated  things  like  this,  if  only  for  the  sake  of 
declaring  that  she  did  not  care  what  anyone  said,  hugging 
Laura. 

"  Silly  old  ass,  aren't  you,  Lolly?    Nice  old  ass,  though!  " 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  Blackheath  bus  dashed  out  from  its  halting-place  on 
the  hill  just  before  Laura  reached  it.  At  the  bottom  it  half 
drew  up,  and  she  still  hoped  that  she  might  catch  it,  ran, 
waving  her  pink  silk  jacket.  But  the  one  passenger  who  dis- 
mounted— why,  it  was  hard  to  say,  for  it  was  little  more  than 
a  hundred  yards  from  its  starting-place — nipped  off  too 
quickly  for  her,  and  it  went  on  again  while  she  was  still  a 
good  dozen  yards  away,  with  that  brutally  indifferent  air 
which  busses  have. 

The  man  who  had  alighted  retraced  his  way  and  came 
towards  her  up  Shooters'  Hill  for  a  few  steps;  changed  his 
mind  and  made  a  tentative  movement  in  the  Eltham  direction; 
then  turned  back  again,  and  stood,  hesitating. 

"  Whatever  did  he  want  to  get  on  and  off  like  that  for? — 
silly  idiot!  "  thought  Laura  crossly;  for  if  the  bus  had  not 
stopped  at  all,  it  would  not  have  seemed  so  aggravating  of  it 
going  on.  And  yet,  in  her  heart,  her  sympathies  were  with 
him,  for  she  knew  how  lost  one  could  feel,  grappling  with 
strange  busses,  going  on  to,  or  getting  out  at,  the  wrong  places. 

The  man  was  slender  and  boyish-looking,  wearing  a  grey 
suit  and  the  wrong  sort  of  hat,  a  broadish  black  felt  with  a 
high  crown,  rather  like  a  Presbyterian  minister.  At  the  very 
first  glance  Laura  put  him  down  as  a  common  person;  while 
just  before  he  spoke  to  her  she  realised  his  red  tie — no  one 
apart  from  outsiders  wore  red  ties.  That  was  her  first 
impression;  and  during  the  whole  of  the  rest  of  his  life  she 
never  realised  anything  else  very  clearly  about  him.  She 
used  to  grope  back  in  her  mind  in  search  of  that  first  im- 
pression, desperately  endeavouring  to  focus  him  by  it.  But, 
after  all,  even  this  was  only  an  impression  of  his  clothes,  not  of 
himself,  and  clothes  did  not  count:  perhaps  that  was  a 
revolution  in  feeling  which  came  to  her  last  of  all.  After  a 
while  even  this  memory — the  wrong  hat,  the  red  tie — was 
overlaid  with  a  variety  of  every  sort  of  feeling,  stratum  upon 
stratum,  each  one  as  intense  as  the  other. 

His  eyes,  deeply-set,  with  a  sharp,  overhanging  curve  to 

14 


LAURA  CREICHTON  15 

the  socket,  were  large  and  very  bright,  a  brownish-hazel; 
the  pupils  dilated,  in  that  fashion  which  may  lend  two  oddly 
diverse  expressions  to  a  face — eager  vitality  or  dreaminess. 
In  this  case  it  was  all  vitality,  eagerness.  Laura  Creichton, 
who  had  a  knack  of  putting  herself  in  the  place  of  other 
people,  was  sure,  on  looking  at  him,  why  he  had  jumped  off 
the  bus  in  that  fashion  without  any  apparent  reason,  destina- 
tion in  view;  it  was  just  the  sort  of  boyish,  impulsive  thing 
he  would  do.  Besides,  it  was  evident  that  he  did  not  know  the 
country,  she  thought  of  Shooters'  Hill  as  the  country,  was 
plainly  enough,  judging  by  his  pale  skin,  a  denizen  of  Greater 
London.  For  he  was  smooth-shaven  and  privet-white;  but 
not  unhealthy-looking,  the  vitality  was  too  intense  for  that, 
not  only  in  the  eyes  but  in  every  movement:  the  quick  way 
in  which  he  had  turned  from  one  direction  to  another,  as 
though  his  own  uncertainty  had  penned  him  back  like  actual 
and  irritating  bars. 

There  was  no  one  else  in  sight,  and  he  raised  his  hat  to 
Laura  as  she  drew  level  with  him. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon — but  could  you  direct  me  to  Black- 
heath  station?  " 

"You  should  have  stayed  on  that  bus;  it  goes  straight 
there." 

Laura  spoke  with  some  severity,  as  she  so  often  did  when 
she  was  shy:  her  glance  level  and  grave. 

The  stranger  gave  a  comical  gesture  and  grimace  of 
despair. 

"  In  the  tram  they  told  me  to  take  Number  2lA  bus,"  he 
said  in  English  which  was  structurally  perfect,  and  yet  held 
something  faintly  foreign  in  the  intonation.  "  I  took  it,  and 
what  happened?  It  went  a  few  yards  up  hill,  and  then 
stopped.  I  took  another  coming  down  the  hill,  and  then — 
I  don't  know.  Somehow  or  other  I  lost  my  head;  someone 
had  said  something  about  changing  at  the  four  cross-roads; 
I  am  certain  of  that.  For  the  rest " — he  spread  out  both  hands 
— "  I  am  bewildered,  completely  bewildered!  " 

"  That  must  have  been  when  you  were  in  the  tram.  But 
you  took  the  bus  coming  from  Blackheath  by  mistake.  Still, 
if  only  you  had  stayed  in  this  second  one " 

"  The  difficulty  is  to  know  whether  they  are  going  or 
coming,"  remarked  the  young  man  impatiently.  "  People 
say,  '  Take  the  Blackheath  bus,'  but  you  don't  even  know 
whether  it's  going  to  Blackheath  or  coming  from  Blackheath, 
and  if  you  ask,  then  they  think  you're  mad,  and  just  repeat, 


16  LAURA  CREICHTON 

'  The  Blackheath  bus,'  very  loud,  as  though  you  were  deaf. 
I  tell  you  this:  I've  been  on  the  Heath  once  already  this 
afternoon,  looking  for  the  station.  I  took  a  bus,  as  directed, 
and  found  myself  at  Woolwich — of  all  awful  places!  It's 
like  getting  out  of  an  underground  station,  one  never 
knows " 

"  If  you  take  the  third  turning  to  the  left,  and  the  second 
to  the  right,  then  the  second  again  to  the  right,  you'll  cut  off 
a  large  corner,  and  come  out  almost  opposite  the  station," 
interrupted  Laura,  without  so  much  as  the  shadow  of  a  smile 
upon  her  face. 

The  stranger  made  a  sweeping  movement  with  his  hat, 
still  in  his  hand,  replaced  it  upon  his  head — ("  I  never  saw 
such  a  white  forehead,"  thought  Laura,  trying  to  discount 
his  effect  upon  herself.  "Just  like  a  kid!  ") — thanked  her 
and  strode  on  ahead;  to  her  great  relief,  for  she  was  over- 
come by  the  fear  that  he  might  expect  to  walk  all  the  way  to 
Blackheath  at  her  side. 

But  this  sense  of  safe  finality  was  short-lived,  for  he  took 
the  second  turning  to  the  right  instead  of  the  third  to  the 
left. 

"  Oh,  let  him  go — he's  old  enough  and  ugly  enough  to  take 
care  of  himself,"  muttered  Laura,  repeating  what  her  father 
had  once  said  to  her  in  one  of  his  bursts  of  irritation,  and 
walked  on  for  a  few  steps.  Then — because  she  was  Laura 
Creichton,  because  she  was  putting  herself  in  his  place, 
thinking  how  awful  it  would  be  if  he  found  himself  in  Wool- 
wich again — as  he  would,  if  he  continued  upon  that  road — she 
started  to  run,  reached  the  corner,  saw  him  already  a  good 
couple  of  hundred  yards  along  the  wrong  road,  and  shouted, 
waving  her  pink  silk  coat. 

He  turned  and  retraced  his  steps,  moving  so  buoyantly 
that  it  reminded  her  of  those  dreams  one  has  of  flying,  not  very 
far  from  the  ground,  just  skimming,  floating.  As  he  came 
within  speaking  distance  she  was  exasperated  to  see  that  he 
was  smiling  in  a  wholly  friendly  fashion,  as  though  he  imagined 
that  she  had  called  him  just  for  the  fun  of  the  thing. 

"  You're  going  wrong."  Her  voice  was  curt  with  the  awful 
fear  of  being  laughed  at. 

"  But  you  said  the  second  to  the  right."  His  frank 
surprise  was  disarming,  and  she  recovered  herself,  though  her 
tone  was  still  prim. 

"  I  said  the  third  to  the  left,  and  then  the  second  to  the 
right." 


LAURA  CREICHTON  17 

**  0-o-oh !  "  He  turned  back  into  the  main  road  at  her 
side.  "  Then  where  does  that  road  go?  " 

"  To  Woolwich."  Laura  bit  her  lip,  pulling  it  down.  It 
did  not  matter  in  the  least  where  that  road  went;  she  had 
told  him  it  was  wrong,  and  there  was  no  necessity  for  any 
further  conversation;  but,  oh  —  oh,  well,  it  was  funny!  Her 
cheeks  crimsoned  with  the  effort  of  suppressed  laughter. 

"To  Woolwich!  To  Woolwich!"  He  laughed  out- 
right. "How  ridiculous!  How  utterly  ridiculous,  eh? 
What  a  fool  you  must  think  me!  Woolwich!  Isn't  that  just 
like  me?  " 

She  didn't  know  whether  it  was  "  like  "  him  or  not;  the 
question  seemed  impertinent,  claiming  a  sort  of  interest, 
acquaintanceship.  She  held  her  head  very  erect  and  kept  her 
eyes  fixed  steadily  in  front  of  her;  but  for  all  that,  she  knew 
that  he  was  peering  round,  wondering  whether  she  shared  his 
merriment.  He  must  have  felt  disappointed,  for  he  sighed; 
then  laughed  afresh,  with  a  sort  of  comic  despair. 

"  If  I  had  got  to  Woolwich  again  I  should  have  stayed 
there.  I  should  have  known  that  it  was  Fate,  stronger  than 
myself.  But  happily  you  intervened  and  saved  me.  Perhaps 
you » 

"  The  third  to  the  left  and  then  the  second  to  the  right," 
put  in  Laura.  She  had  never  in  her  life  felt  more  at  sea; 
more  confused  in  an  odd,  soft  sort  of  way;  half  pleased,  half 
frightened.  But  there  was  stern  blood  in  her  veins,  all 
broken  up  and  diluted  by  the  honey-sweetness  of  the  Ogilvies 
— her  mother's  family,  with  its  old,  safely-established  business 
— and  she  walked  briskly  on  ahead,  without  so  much  as  a 
glance  aside,  much  less  the  shadow  of  a  smile  upon  her  face. 

At  the  third  turning  to  the  left  she  half  turned,  with  a 
single  guiding  gesture;  there  was  nothing  compromising  in 
that,  and  she  felt  her  responsibility. 

The  young  man  had  vanished. 

"  Oh,  well !  "  said  Laura,  as  though  to  tell  herself  she  had 
done  with  that.  Anyhow,  it  left  the  short  cut  free  for  her; 
she  was  terribly  late  as  it  was — would  have  been  later  if  she 
had  had  to  go  the  long  way  round. 

She  walked  quickly,  swinging  her  coat  and  racquet;  then 
slackened  her  speed,  dawdled,  then  hurried  on  again. 

She  was  not  happy;  she  felt  guilty.  She  could  not  follow 
the  thought,  argue  against  the  folly  of  fear  for  a  young  man — 
a  perfectly  able-bodied,  apparently  alert  young  man — amid 
the  smug  urbanities  of  Blackheath.  But  for  all  that,  she  felt 


18  LAURA  CREICHTON 

relieved,  less  of  a  "  beast,"  when  she  heard  a  voice  calling  her, 
and,  glancing  back,  saw  him  once  again  swim  into  her  wake. 
For  all  this,  she  quickened  her  pace.  What  cheek!  shouting 
to  her  in  that  way,  as  though  she  were  part  of  a  Bank  Holiday ! 

He  ran  after  her,  caught  her  up,  mopping  his  brow. 
"Cheek!"  she  thought  again:  glanced  at  him  sideways,  as 
haughtily  as  Miss  Farquharson  herself,  and  then  melted. 

After  all,  he  did  not  look  cheeky — he  was  not  cheeky!  As 
her  sidelong  glance  met  his,  he  had  the  air  of  a  puppy  trying 
to  keep  its  tail  between  its  legs  and  wag  it  at  the  same  time: 
the  look  which  comes  from  that  sort  of  feeling  with  which 
she,  Laura  herself,  was  so  fatally  well  acquainted,  of  not 
knowing  exactly  where  one  is,  ashamed,  deprecating.  He 
actually  put  it  into  words,  and  for  the  second  time — "  I  know 
I'm  an  awful  ass."  His  glance  added,  just  as  hers  might  have 
done,  had  done  so  many  times,  "  But  do  forgive  me — do  like 
me." 

"  I  took  the  wrong  turning,  after  all." 

"  You  don't  seem  very  bright."  Someone  had  once  said 
this  to  Laura,  and  it  had  hurt  cruelly.  She  repeated  it  now, 
blunting  the  harshness  with  a  little  laugh,  and  it  gave  her  a 
sense  of  power;  though  all  the  while  she  was  ashamed  of  it  as 
a  sort  of  familiarity,  condoning  a  casual  acquaintanceship. 

"  I  know,  I  know;  but  I  was  thinking  of  something  else." 
She  felt  his  glance,  and  knew  that  he  meant,  "  I  was  thinking 
of  you."  "  I  must  have  taken  the  second  turning  instead  of 
the  third.  I  found  it  out  because  it  came  to  an  end;  there  was 
nothing  but  a  fence  and  a  little  footpath.  I  ran  along  that 
and  into  another  road,  then  into  another — I  know  I'm  a  fool — 
was  utterly  bewildered!  But  I  thought  that  this  must  be  the 
sort  of  direction,  and  I  was  right,  you  see.  My  word!  I  was 
glad  to  see  you,  to  know  I  was  right!  " 

She  wondered  how  he  knew  that  she  was  not  going  to 
Woolwich:  why  he  spoke  as  though  he  had  been  searching 
for  her — running,  too — instead  of  for  Blackheath  station. 

"  Some  day  more  kind 
My  fate  I'll  find," 

he  went  on,  cheerfully,  walking  at  her  side,  swinging  his  hat 
in  his  hand,  while  she  wondered  what  in  the  world  would 
happen  if  she  met  anyone  she  knew.  "  Do  you  know  that? 
It's  a  Spanish  song."  He  ran  over  the  Spanish  words,  then 
the  English,  soft,  full  syllables; '  stopping  short  before  the 
last  line — "  Some  night  kiss  you." 


LAURA  CREICHTON  19 

"Are  you  Spanish?"  She  had  a  girlish,  old-fashioned 
ardour  for  everything  foreign;  but  she  regretted  the  question 
directly  it  was  asked.  What  on  earth  could  it  matter  to  her 
what,  or  who,  he  was? 

"My  mother's  mother  came  from  Spain;  but  my  grand- 
father met  her  in  America.  My  father's  people  were  of  Polish 
origin." 

"  Oh." 

"  And  my  name — very  much  at  your  service — is  Paul 
Vortonitch." 

To  her  embarrassment  he  took  out  a  shabby  little  green 
morocco  case  and  handed  her  a  card.  No  one  had  ever  done 
such  a  thing  before;  and  the  card,  like  his  clothes,  was  all 
wrong:  too  large,  with  over-ornate  lettering.  The  action 
might  have  been  that  of  a  tradesman,  but  it  wasn't. 

"  And  now,  as  we  know  each  other "  He  paused, 

and  then,  as  she  did  not  answer,  started  off  again,  upon  a 
fresh  tack:  "  If  only  you  were  going  to  Blackheath!  " 

Still  Laura  did  not  answer,  hurrying  on,  her  lips  tightly 
folded.  It  had  already  struck  seven;  the  brightness  of  the 
day  was  veiled  in  a  pinkish-grey  haze.  She  reflected,  with  a 
sense  of  panic:  "Why,  if  it  were  winter-time  it  would  be 
night.  And  this  strange  man !  " 

The  thought — stavangering  about  Blackheath  at  night, 
with  a  strange  man! — appalled  her,  and  she  thrust  it  away  at 
the  back  of  her  mind. 

"  Or  if  you  were  going  part  of  the  way  in  the  same 
direction " 

Even  now  she  did  not  answer. 

"  Or  if  you  would  tell  me  which  way  you  are  going, 

it  would  seem  to  make  a  sort  of  jumping-off  place.  You're 
not — I  suppose  you're  not  by  any  chance  going  to " — his 
voice  broke  with  a  boyish  half-laugh,  despite  his  diffidence — 
"  to  Woolwich?  " 

"  No." 

At  some  tableaux  vivants  in  which  she  had  once  helped,  as 
a  representative  of  Spring,  there  had  been  a  light  grey  gauze 
curtain  stretched  between  the  audience  and  performers,  right 
across  the  front  of  the  stage,  adding  illusion  to  the  scene.  In 
this  early-evening  light,  with  everything  so  odd  and  unreal,  it 
appeared  to  Laura  Creichton  as  though  the  gardens  with  the 
trim  hedges,  the  dim,  still  unlighted  houses  were  thus  sepa- 
rated, shut  away,  apart  from  herself  and  the  man  who  walked 
by  her  side.  Even  the  passers-by,  the  very  rare  passers-by, 


20  LAURA  CREICHTON 

seemed  strange  and  alien  creatures,  with  muffled  footsteps; 
only  a  blackbird  was  near,  singing  clearly,  wonderfully, 
flooding  the  whole  road  with  its  song. 

"  Where — where — how  can  I  tell  my  direction  if  I  don't 
know  yours?  "  persisted  the  voice  at  her  side,  irrationally 
enough. 

"  I'm  going  to  Blackheath."  She  shot  it  out  defiantly, 
turning,  facing  him,  very  angry — with  herself,  with  him. 

"  To  Blackheath?  All  this  time — you  were  going  to 
Blackheath — and  you  never  told  me!  I  never  heard  anything 
like  that." 

His  reproach  was  so  childish,  so  plaintive,  that  she  was 
filled  with  remorse. 

"  But  not  to  the  same  part.  I'm  going  to  the  edge  of  the 
Heath,  up  above  the  station." 

"  But,  even  so,  you  could  so  easily  put  me  on  my  way 
from  there.  Here  it  is  like  a  maze,  all  the  same  sort  of  little 
roads,  houses,  gardens!  Now,  even  now — mademoiselle,  if 
only  I  might  walk  with  you  as  far  as  you  go " 

The  "  mademoiselle  "  pleased  her.  It  sounded  respectful ; 
it  established  him  as  a  foreigner  who  did  not  know  any  better, 
who  could  not  be  expected  to  know  that  in  England  strange 
young  men  do  not  walk  alone  with  strange  young  women  to 
whom  they  have  not  even  been  introduced.  Abysmal 
ignorance!  As  if  there  was  any  other  country  in  the  world 
where  such  a  thing  were  possible,  excepting  under  the  grossest 
conditions ! 

The  humility,  diffidence  of  his  whole  manner,  this  also 
pleased  her,  made  her  feel  like  someone  else.  She  gave  a 
little  laugh,  and  turned  her  head,  for  the  first  time  looking  at 
him  as  though  he  were  a  real  person  and  not  one  of  the  great 
world  of  unintroduced. 

"  Well,  that  seems  to  be  what  you  are  doing " 

"  What  is  that,  mademoiselle?  "  He  looked  puzzled,  as 
though  for  that  moment  his  English  had  failed  him. 

"Walking  with  me,"  she  explained  shyly;  and,  laughing 
together,  they  moved  on  side  by  side,  the  mutual  laugh  seeming 
to  have  established  a  sort  of  understanding. 

Later  on  the  same  night,  in  thinking  back  over  that 
walk,  it  seemed  to  Laura  that  they  had  talked  of  all  sorts 
of  things.  He  had  told  her  of  himself,  his  many  wanderings: 
of  how  all  his  life  he  had  been  tossed  here,  left  there,  like  a 
parcel.  There  seemed  no  sort  of  anchorage,  to  Laura 
Creichton's  mind,  no  placing  him,  because  he  was  not  a 


LAURA  CREICHTON  21 

Wellington  boy,  a  Winchester  or  Cheltenham  boy,  or  any- 
thing of  that  sort,  like  all  the  other  young  men  she  knew. 
And  yet,  though  he  was  of  no  school,  he  appeared  to  have 
been  to  any  amount  of  schools — Catholic,  Church  of  England, 
Lutheran;  a  school  in  Pernambuco,  a  school  in  Aberdeen,  a 
school  in  Buda-Pesth:  languages  seemed  no  sort  of  stumbling- 
block  to  him. 

"  Oh,  of  course  I  got  on  all  right."  That  was  what  he 
said.  "  One  can  always  make  oneself  understood." 

Laura  wondered,  remembering  Philip's  agonies  during 
that  fortnight  in  Normandy  with  the  Hendersons,  the  summer 
before. 

She  asked  him  what  he  did,  and  he  answered :  "  Oh,  all 
sorts  of  things!  "  Then,  when  she  explained  her  meaning, 
rather  gravely,  anxiously,  for  it  would  have  been  "horrid"  to 
find  him  a  shop-boy,  or  anything  of  that  sort,  even  a  clerk,  he 
told  her  that  he  wrote. 

"  Poems,  articles,  stories — oh,  anything.  Paint  a  bit,  too," 
he  said,  so  carelessly  and  offhandedly  that  he  did  not  impress 
her,  even  then,  as  a  person  with  any  very  definite  pursuit  in 
life.  And  yet  he  did  not  appear  rich;  it  seemed  as  though  he 
must  do  something  for  a  living.  He  was  not  so  very  young, 
either;  not  a  boy,  despite  his  boyishness,  for  in  the  grey 
light  she  realised  that  there  were  innumerable  faint  lines,  as 
fine  as  though  scratched  with  some  sharply  pointed  instru- 
ment, round  his  nose  and  mouth:  though  not  inevitably  the 
lines  of  age,  for  one  had  seen  them  on  the  faces  of  even  the 
youngest  of  those  officers  who  had  been  prisoners  in  Germany 
during  the  war. 

They  parted  at  the  corner  of  the  Heath,  where  the  road 
runs  downhill,  through  the  odd,  old-fashioned,  village-like 
place,  straight  to  the  station.  There  could  be  no  mistake 
about  it  this  time.  They  laughed  over  this,  or,  rather,  he 
laughed,  for  Laura  Creichton  was  of  a  sudden  more  restrained 
and  shy  than  ever,  panoplied  in  primness.  For  this  parting, 
with  no  prospect  of  meeting  again,  this  going  away  into  the 
blue,  as  it  were,  seemed  to  mark  the  enormity  of  such  chance 
acquaintanceship;  almost  like  a  sort  of  punishment.  And 
yet,  when  she  had  transgressed  so  far  as  that,  it  was  ridiculous 
to  draw  the  line  suddenly,  awkwardly,  as  she  did,  at  shaking 
hands. 

She  thought  of  this  as  she  turned  into  her  own  gate,  shut 
round  by  the  definite  twilight,  the  end  of  the  day;  away  from 
all  that  odd  excitement  and  warmth,  into  a  loneliness  greater 


22  LAURA  CREICHTON 

and  absolutely  different  from  anything  which  she  had  ever 
known  before. 

She  was  very  late  for  dinner;  they  had  already  started 
the  sweet.  By  rights  Laura  should  have  cut  in  where  she 
found  herself,  at  trifle  and  stewed  fruit.  This  was  one  of 
General  Sir  Harry  Creichton's  rules — nothing  was  to  be  kept 
hot  or  brought  back;  if  his  family  chose  to  be  late  for  a  meal, 
they  must  suffer  for  it.  Luckily,  the  parlour-maid  disregarded 
this  regulation,  cheerfully  and  openly,  as  Lady  Creichton 
herself  would  never  have  dared  to  do,  and  if  she  chose  to 
bring  back  the  dishes,  she  did  so,  though  she  seldom  exercised 
this  privilege  of  choice  where  anyone  save  Laura,  her  special 
favourite,  was  concerned. 

Happily,  a  couple  of  old  regimental  friends  of  General 
Creichton's  were  dining  there  that  night;  indeed,  the  family 
were  seldom  alone:  there  were  so  many  men  connected  with 
"  the  Shop  "  and  Arsenal  whom  it  was  their  duty  to  entertain, 
and  he  merely  raised  his  eyebrows  with  a — "  Really,  my  dear 
Laura!  "  as  she  slipped  into  her  place. 

Marjorie  tackled  her  later,  coming  into  her  room  where  she 
was  brushing  her  hair:  Marjorie,  supposed  to  be  in  bed  at 
nine-thirty ! 

"  What  in  the  world  have  you  been  up  to,  Lolly?  You 
looked  as  silly  as  anything!  As  if  you  didn't  know  where 
you  were — all  over  the  shop,  and  your  face  crimson!  " 

Laura,  suddenly  proud  of  her  adventure,  recounted  it. 
Marjorie  was  so  fond  of  calling  her  a  stick-in-the-mud — "  a 
prim  old  stick  " — "  centuries  behind  the  times !  " — that  she 
felt  as  though  she  were  justifying  herself,  her  youth.  To  her 
surprise  the  younger  girl  was  horrified. 

"Well,  if  that  isn't  the  limit!  Really,  Lolly,  I  never 
did!  To  pick  up  with  a  man  you  knew  nothing  of,  like  that — 
like  a  servant — like  a  common  Bank  Holidayite.  Supposing 
anyone  had  seen  you!  My  hat!  " 

Laura  herself  had  thought  of  all  this,  had  thought  of  it  and 
braved  it  with  a  vivid  sense  of  courage.  Put  into  words,  as 
Marjorie  put  it,  it  did  indeed  sound  pretty  awful;  and  yet — 

"  Well,  for  you  to  go  on  like  that !  "  She  spoke  with 
spirit.  "  When  I  think  of  you  and  that  Wade  boy — letting 
him  kiss  you,  paw  you  about! — And  Archie  Gilchrist  and 
young  Halliway!  " 

But  Marjorie  did  not  turn  a  hair.  "  That  was  different," 
she  remarked  calmly;  "absolutely  different.  Boys  I  know 
— our  own  sort." 


LAURA  CREICHTON  23 

"  Well,  how  do  you  know  this  man  wasn't  *  our  own 
sort '  ?  " 

"  You  yourself  said  he  looked  different." 

"  Well,  can't  people  look  different  and  be  all  right?  " 

"  No,  they  can't ;  they're  cranks  or  socialists,  or  some- 
thing— or  not  the  right  sort.  Look  at  that  poet  with  the 
funny  collar  who  went  off  with  the  Mappletons'  silver  cigar- 
box!  " 

"  They  don't  know  that  it  was  he  who  went  off  with  it." 

"  Of  course  they  know.  You  only  had  to  look  at  him,  to 
see  the  sort  of  Johnny  he  was!  His  hair! — my  hat!  " 

"  You  do  all  sorts  of  things.  Things  I'd  be  ashamed  to 
do!" 

"  Not  things  like  that — dawdling  about  the  place  with  a 
perfect  stranger.  I  daresay  he  put  his  arm  round  your 
waist." 

"  Marjorie!  "    Laura's  pale  face  was  aflame. 

"  Well,  that's  the " 

"  You  can  go  out  of  my  room.  Do  you  hear?  Go  out  of 
my  room.  I  don't  want  you  here,  saying  such  things!  " 

"  I  only  said  what  was  true." 

"  You  didn't.    You  said " 

"  I  only  said,  '  I  daresay.'  " 

"  You  did !     You  said — you  insinuated " 

"  Nothing  to  what  any  of  the  old  cats  here  would  have 
insinuated,  if  they  saw  you;  let  me  tell  you  that,  my  dear!  " 
Marjorie  moved  towards  the  door;  then,  catching  sight  of  her 
face  in  the  looking-glass,  turned  aside  and  bent  towards  it, 
surveying  herself  with  dismay. 

"  I  do  believe  I'm  going  to  have  another  spot  on  my  chin." 
She  thrust  it  forward,  square  and  white.  She  had  a  beautiful 
skin,  thick  and  rather  highly  coloured,  the  smooth  surface 
unmarked  save  by  the  reiteration  of  one  tiny  spot  which  caused 
her  the  greatest  anxiety. 

In  every  way  she  was  the  antithesis  of  her  sister:  shorter, 
more  squarely  built,  her  face  square  where  Laura's  was 
round,  her  neck  thick  and  short  and  very  white,  her  eyes  a 
hard  blue,  sharp  and  curious,  and  yet  good-tempered;  her 
hair  straight,  dark-brown  and  bobbed. 

She  was  very  modern-looking;  in  her  clothes,  though  she 
was  still  only  a  schoolgirl,  in  her  talk,  her  manners.  Laura 
had  always  looked  upon  her  as  a  marvel  of  cleverness,  because 
she  was  good  at  sums,  possessed  an  accurate  memory,  was  so 
cocksure  of  everything.  In  reality  she  was,  like  so  many 


24  LAURA   CREICHTON 

young  girls,  unintelligent  through  her  very  lack  of  sensitive- 
ness, interest  in  anything  apart  from  herself;  unlike  an 
earlier  generation,  sentimental  and  poetical,  she  could  talk  of 
nothing  which  was  not  an  actual  concrete  fact,  well  within  the 
range  of  her  own  interest;  was  incapable  of  any  discussion, 
speculation,  or  flight  of  fancy  beyond  that  which  might  be  used 
in  getting  the  very  most,  and  that  in  a  wholly  material  sense. 
out  of  life.  Let  anyone  touch  upon  the  more  subtle  forms  of 
religion,  philosophy,  social  work,  poetry,  ideals,  in  front  of 
Marjorie  Creichton,  and  her  face  would  set  in  a  blank,  half- 
aullen  mask,  which  meant  that  she  did  not  intend  to  take  the 
trouble  even  to  try  to  understand  such  things.  Hers  was  a 
character,  common  enough,  and  daily  growing  more  common, 
in  which  there  were  no  lights  and  shades.  She  was  admirably 
suited  for  the  business  of  life  upon  the  most  commonplace 
plane:  all  her  adventures,  her  boasting  of  freedom,  were 
nothing;  she  was  as  conventional  within  the  boundaries  of 
her  own  period  as  anyone  could  well  be.  Catch  Marjorie 
throwing  her  cap  over  the  windmill,  unless  it  were  **  the 
thing  "  to  do :  even  then,  trust  her  to  get  something  of  the 
boomerang  twist  upon  it. 

Quite  suddenly  Laura  realised  her  as  she  was:  funda- 
mentally far  less  adventurous  than  herself.  Marjorie  never 
wanted  to  travel — "  Beastly  foreigners !  " — "  Stinking  black 
people!  " — that  was  Marjorie — bitten  by  no  sombre  vision  of 
tropical  forest,  flaming  sunlit  desert. 

That  grey  curtain  which  had  fallen  between  herself  and 
the  stranger,  the  remainder  of  the  world,  still  seemed  to 
hang  about  Laura;  and  oddly  enough,  though  it  set  her 
apart  even  from  her  own  people,  it  cleared  her  vision  of  them 
by  this  very  setting  apart.  When  she  entered  the  dining- 
room  that  night,  it  had  seemed  as  though  she  saw  it,  her 
father  and  mother,  her  mother's  cousin,  who  was  staying  in 
the  house — so  often  invited  because  she  was  so  useful  and  did 
not  mind  where  she  was  put — for  the  first  time. 

She  had  been  angry  with  Marjorie,  ashamed  of  herself; 
quite  suddenly  she  was  no  longer  ashamed:  she  was,  and 
perhaps  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  contemptuous. 

"You  and  your  beastly  old  spot!  "  she  said.  "I  don't 
believe  you  ever  think  of  anything  else!  " 

It  was  ridiculous,  it  was  childish.  All  the  same,  it  was 
epoch-making,  for  it  showed  her  emancipation  from  the  over- 
rule of  that  sister,  who  was,  after  all,  two  years  younger  than 
herself. 


LAURA  CREICHTON  25 

Lady  Creichton  loved  her  elder  daughter,  but  she  had  a 
boundless  admiration  for  the  younger,  in  whom  she  found  no 
sort  of  kinship  with  herself;  had  impressed  it  upon  Laura, 
with  a  constant  reiteration,  until  it  seemed  a  part  of  life,  like 
cold  beef  for  Sunday  supper. 

"  Marjorie's  got  all  the  brains "  ;  "  Marjorie's  so  cap- 
able"  ;  "Marjorie's  so  advanced  for  her  age"  ;  "Marjorie's 
so  practical,"  she  would  declare,  praising  her  the  more  openly 
in  that  she  was  conscious  of  a  faint,  very  faint,  flaw  in  her  own 
affection,  mingled  with  which — quite  unguessed  at — was 
something  like  a  sense  of  repulsion  for  the  girl's  insensitive- 
ness,  her  almost  vulgar  self-assertion. 

She  would  give  a  little  movement  when  Marjorie  entered 
the  room,  for  the  most  part  talking  over  her  shoulder  to 
someone  in  the  hall  or  on  the  staircase,  that  was  almost 
shrinking;  a  drawing  of  herself  together  and  apart.  With 
Laura  she  expanded;  it  was  like  being  in  the  sun;  she  was 
always  comfortable  and  at  ease  with  her,  as  she  was,  only  in 
a  more  vital  sort  of  way,  with  her  one  son,  a  year  older  than 
Laura  and  in  his  first  year  at  Oxford.  She  was  as  she  liked 
to  be  with  her  elder  daughter,  she  was  at  her  best  with 
Charlie;  but  with  Marjorie  she  was  continually  making  an 
effort  to  be  something  she  was  not. 

A  chit,  this  Marjorie — a  hard  chit.  And  yet  not  so  hard 
as  she  seemed:  simply  dense.  There  is  nothing  on  earth  she 
would  have  resented  more;  but  if  you  spoke  the  truth  regard- 
ing her,  with  insight  and  good  nature,  you  would  have  said, 
"  Stupid,  but  a  good  sort;  means  well." 

And  yet  the  way  in  which  she  remarked,  "  Oh !  You  of  the 
last  generation!  "  was  enough  to  put  almost  anyone  back  in 
his  or  her  place,  flattening  them  out  away  from  the  obvious 
enquiry  as  to  in  which  direction  humanity  had  so  greatly 
improved;  what  she  herself  had  ever  really,  actually  done  to 
prove  her  superiority. 

As  it  was,  she  ruled  the  household,  apart  from  her  father, 
whom  she  could  coax  into  anything,  and  the  parlour-maid, 
who  would  have  none  of  her.  Only  later  did  Lady  Creichton 
— herself  so  nebulous  upon  ordinary  occasions — plumb  her, 
find  thickness  in  the  place  of  depth;  and,  re-discovering  her 
as  a  very  silly,  helpless  little  girl,  love  her  as  she  had  always 
loved  her  elder  daughter. 


CHAPTER  III 

IT  was  close  upon  nine  o'clock  by  the  time  that  Paul  Vor- 
tonitch  emerged  from  Charing  Cross  Station,  for  he  had 
doubled  back  again  after  Laura  left  him  and  watched  her  go 
into  her  own  gate;  then  dawdled  about  a  little,  asking  a  few 
casual  questions  concerning  a  fabulous  "  Mr.  Ponsonby  " — the 
first  name  which  came  into  his  head.  "  Where  did  the  famous 
Mr.  Ponsonby  live?  Might  it  be  that  house  with  the  long 
white-pillared  portico?  " — being  met  with  a  blank  stare,  and 
— "  Not  as  I  know,"  or — "  Never  heard  the  name,"  until  he 
chanced  upon  a  person  who  was  acquainted  with  the  name  of 
the  person  who  lived  in  that  particular  house,  and  told  him 
so  with  the  habitual  rudeness  of  an  Englishman  who  happens 
to  know  what  another  person  doesn't  know — and  the  less 
important  the  knowledge  the  greater  the  rudeness. 

"  Ponsonby !  No !  That  there's  General  Sir  Harry 
Creichton's  house,  him  as  is  head  o'  the  Arsenal." 

It  was  in  this  manner  that  Vortonitch  discovered  that 
name  which  Laura  Creichton  had  so  shyly  withheld. 

It  pleased  him  oddly.  All  his  life  had  been  like  this;  he 
had  cruel  runs  of  ill-luck,  like  spells  of  severe  frost,  hardening, 
wilting,  benumbing;  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  like  a  burst  of 
sunshine,  there  would  come  something  of  this  sort,  something 
little  short  of  amazing.  The  odd  swing  of  the  pendulum  was 
so  sure  that  it  rendered  him  careless,  improvident,  and 
in  every  sort  of  way,  dangerous  ways.  Often  enough  the 
downward  swing  would  show  a  sickening  pause,  like  that  dread 
full  stop  which  will  sometimes  occur  between  two  heart-beats, 
when  he  would  draw  himself  tightly  together,  every  nerve 
taut,  to  stick  it  out.  Sometimes  it  went  on  for  so  long — this 
terrifying,  numbing  pause,  when  life  hung  fire — that  on  the 
top  of  his  mind  was  the  fear  that  the  balance  could  never  right 
itself.  It  had  been  like  this  a  little  more  than  a  year  earlier, 
when  he  had  found  himself  in  a  very  tight  hole:  a  hole  in 
every  sense  of  the  word,  a  sort  of  wild  beasts'  den  hollowed 
out  of  a  muddy  hillside  in  Galicia,  barred  into  a  prison;  where 
his  sufferings,  both  mental  and  physical,  had  been  so  intense 

26 


LAURA  CREICHTON  27 

that  he  felt  as  though  life  must  be  squeezed  out  of  him  by 
sheer  cold,  hunger,  pain,  the  exasperation  of  the  imprisoned 
— worst  of  agonies!  And  yet  even  then,  as  always,  he  had 
been  kept  alive,  though  only  just  alive,  by  something  that  was 
too  clear  and  sharp  for  mere  hope:  the  certainty  of  that 
return,  that  mounting,  swing. 

That  very  afternoon  he  had  been  overweighted  with  a 
sense  of  flat  disappointment.  Woolwich  might  have  been  so 
wonderful.  He  had  imagination,  and  his  imagination  had  set 
it  in  a  blaze  of  wonderful  happenings :  so  literally,  had  anyone 
known  what  was  inside  the  superficially  boyish-looking  head, 
beneath  that  Noncomformist-looking  hat —  "a  blaze  of  wonder- 
ful happenings!  "  And  yet,  at  every  turn  he  had  found 
himself  baulked,  by  sentries,  by  watchmen,  by  policemen, 
those  marvels  of  English  organisation,  whose  solid  dark-blue 
forms  are  even  more  significant,  awe-inspiring  and  uniquely 
insular  than  the  much-vaunted  cliffs  of  Dover  themselves. 

There  were  the  dockyards,  with  the  vision  of  all  that 
ship-building  meant:  transport,  offence,  defence;  and  the 
Arsenal — square  miles  of  land,  millions  of  square  feet  of 
brickwork,  tons  upon  tons  of  machinery;  human  beings 
almost  beyond  number  devoting  their  mind  and  muscle,  the 
piston-like  throb  of  heart,  passage  of  blood  through  the  veins, 
every  ounce  of  what  goes  to  make  man,  to  the  fashioning  of 
such  machinery  as  must  still  be  laid  by  in  readiness  for  his 
unmaking. 

There  they  all  were,  dockyards  and  Arsenal  alike  pregnant 
with  wonderful  possibilities;  and  yet  set  apart,  shut  away 
within  those  immense  blind  walls,  with  their  heavy  iron 
gates,  guarded  by  men  who — in  that  sizzling  afternoon  sun- 
shine, seemed  to  be  more  than  half  asleep,  and  were  not. 

"  Now  then,"  said  one  of  them  to  Vortonitch.  He  did 
not  raise  his  voice;  the  insignificant  words  were  good-natured 
enough,  and  yet  so  extraordinarily  significant,  as  significant 
as  a  growl,  that,  almost  involuntarily,  Paul  moved  on. 

For  a  couple  of  hours  or  more  he  prowled  about  Woolwich. 
In  his  cosmopolitan,  imaginative  way  he  was  stimulated  by, 
interested  in,  everything  he  saw.  But,  after  all,  there  was  so 
little  to  see.  It  seemed  as  though  he  must  be  able  to  get 
some  sort  of  a  view  from  somewhere  or  other:  he  even 
crossed  by  the  moving  bridge  to  the  further  side  of  the  river, 
twice  in  succession.  But  it  was  all  of  no  use:  Woolwich, 
the  business  part  of  Woolwich,  the  Woolwich,  was  like  a  broad 
back  obstinately  turned  away  from  him. 


28  LAURA  CREICHTON 

When  he  embarked  upon  the  bridge  for  the  second  time, 
he  noticed  a  heavily  built,  phlegmatic-looking  man  who  seated 
himself  with  an  air  of  melancholy  indifference  in  the  stern, 
and  who  was,  like  himself,  apparently,  crossing  and  re-crossing 
just  for  the  fun  of  the  thing:  for  the  sake  of  the  fresh  air,  salt 
with  the  incoming  tide,  or  the  view — grey  chimneys,  grey 
smoke,  racing  steam-tugs,  slow-moving  barges,  masts,  funnels, 
spires,  cranes,  chimney-pots,  madly  twirling  cowls;  blue  sky 
and  swift-running  stream  of  molten  silver  churned  up  by  the 
bridge,  in  movement  like  some  vast,  prehistoric  river-beast. 

Not  that  he  seemed  to  notice  the  view,  for  he  sat  as  much 
as  possible  with  his  back  to  everything,  his  knees  wide  apart, 
his  stout  body,  which  seemed  to  be  tightly  stuffed  with  some- 
thing that  was  more  akin  to  sawdust  than  flesh-and-blood — 
so  tightly  stuffed  that  there  was  no  need  of  any  support  of  bone 
or  muscle — bent  forward  in  a  sort  of  dense  curve,  his  elbows 
stuck  back  on  the  taffrail  behind  him,  while  he  spat  in  a 
perfect,  painstaking,  and  unbroken  semi-circle  around  him. 

When  the  bridge  attendant  remonstrated  with  him  for 
this,  he  threw  Paul  one  glance,  full  of  simple  pathos: 

"Look  how  I'm  set  upon;  only  look  how  I'm  harried!  " 
it  seemed  to  say. 

Later  on,  trying  to  get  some  clear  impression  of  what  is 
irreverently  known  as  "  the  Shop  " — that  part  of  Woolwich 
which  is  all  that  so  many  people  know  of  the  place — Vorto- 
nitch  saw  the  stout  stranger  once  more,  toiling  rather  wearily 
up  the  hill  from  the  town. 

He  did  not  draw  up  quite  near  to  him,  but  sat  down 
upon  a  bench  a  few  yards  away,  and  taking  off  his  hat  wiped 
out  the  inside  of  it  with  the  greatest  care,  like  a  housewife 
busied  over  a  piece  of  valuable  china. 

As  Paul  turned  aside  from  the  contemplation  of  the  great 
straggling  network  of  buildings  which  go  to  form  the  Military 
Academy,  the  actual  figures  coming  and  going,  men  in  uni- 
form, men  in  flannels,  the  mental  picture  of  a  never-ending 
stream  of  young  life  busy  learning  how  to  kill  and  be  killed, 
he  was  bound  to  pass  the  bench,  where  the  stranger,  having 
finished  with  his  hat,  was  at  work  upon  his  own  forehead,  as 
though  bent  upon  making  it  fit  to  re-enter  the  swept  shrine  of 
greenish-black,  more  greenish  than  black,  felt. 

"  'Ot!  "  he  said.  The  single  syllable,  neither  added  to  nor 
weakened  by  pronoun,  adverb,  was  so  expressive  as  to  be  in 
itself  almost  tropical,  sweltering. 

"  Yes,   yes,   it   is  hot — very  hot   for   the   time   of   year," 


LAURA  CREICHTON  29 

responded  Vortonitch;  then  hesitated.  He  seemed  to  have 
seen  the  man  before,  and  if  he  had  not  actually  seen  him,  he 
had  seen  something  which  he  represented.  For  a  moment  his 
quick  mind  ran  to  and  fro  like  a  shuttle.  Why  had  this 
person  crossed  and  re-crossed  upon  the  moving  bridge?  Why 
was  he  sitting  here  now? 

Suddenly,  as  though  in  answer  to  this  question,  the  man 
spoke,  with  a  shame-faced,  deprecating  smirk :  "  A  drink, 
now,"  he  said  huskily — "  a  drink  'ud  go  down  proper,  if  so  be 
that " 

With  an  infinitely  grotesque  series  of  gestures  he  slapped 
his  pockets,  tight-strained  against  his  over-stout  person,  and 
Paul  Vortonitch  drew  a  little  breath  of  relief.  Perhaps  it 
was  that  experience  in  Galicia,  other  experiences  of  his 
difficult  and  insecure  youth,  which  had  made  him  shrink  from 
the  very  idea  of  being  followed;  but  here,  at  any  rate,  was 
nothing  more  than  an  ordinary  cadger  of  drinks:  his  clothes 
were  respectable  enough,  but,  like  his  hat,  they  had  seen 
better  days  and  were  by  no  means  the  clothes  of  an  ordinary 
working-man  or  prosperous  citizen;  while  his  silly  buttoned 
or,  rather,  half-buttoned,  patent  leather  boots  were  split 
across  the  toes.  It  would  be  ridiculous  to  fear  a  man  so 
obviously  a  failure,  buffeted  by  his  own  weaknesses,  thought 
Vortonitch;  and  without  a  word,  with  a  sense  of  contemptu- 
ous relief,  he  tossed  him  a  sixpence;  then,  turning  aside, 
jumped  onto  the  footboard  of  a  passing  tram. 

Directly  he  was  out  of  sight,  the  stout  man  rose  to  his  feet 
and  made  his  way  back  in  the  direction  of  the  town;  moving 
with  astounding  agility,  that  sort  of  agility  which  may  be 
displayed  by  a  Newfoundland  pup — still  with  no  hint  of  bone 
or  muscle,  any  propelling  power  beyond  his  own  rotundity — 
until  he  came  within  hail  of  a  taxi,  and,  hurtling  into  it, 
offered  the  driver  ten  shillings  over  and  above  his  legal  fare 
if  he  precisely  followed  certain  directions  given. 

This  personage  was  taking  his  ticket  at  Blackheath  booking- 
office  when  Paul  Vortonitch  entered  the  station. 

Turning  round,  with  his  change  in  his  hand — rather  a  lot 
of  change  for  a  person  who  has  lately  accepted  sixpence  for  a 
drink — meeting  him  face  to  face,  he  beamed  widely;  though 
the  younger  man  felt  something  of  reserve,  confusion  at  the 
back  of  those  undulations  of  the  vast  pale  countenance  which 
made  for  a  smile. 

"  Had  your  drink?  "  he  enquired. 

"Shouldn't    be    'ere    if    I    'adn't,"    breathed    the    other 


30  LAURA  CREICHTON 

gratefully,  as  though  it  were  that  liquid  nourishment  alone 
which  had  propelled  him  over  the  long  dusty  road  that  lay 
betwixt  Woolwich  and  Blackheath. 

Vortonitch  smiled;  but  there  was  something  bleak  and  hard 
in  his  expression  beneath  the  flaring  gas-jet;  something  in 
harmony  with  those  innumerable  fine  lines  which  had  struck 
Laura  Creichton  as  being  so  oddly  in  contrast  with  his  boyish 
air. 

He  walked  down  the  dirty  steps  to  the  platform,  frowning 
thoughtfully,  tapping  his  lip  with  his  ticket.  Then,  thinking 
of  his  companion  of  half  an  hour  earlier,  he  smiled.  If  this 
disreputable-looking  person  had  been  following  him,  spying 
upon  him,  he  had  at  least  seen  him  in  very  good  company — 
nothing  less  than  that  of  the  eldest  daughter  of  an  exceedingly 
highly-placed  official. 

He  thought  of  all  this  as  he  breasted  the  crowd  at  the  top 
of  the  Strand,  and  turned  into  Trafalgar  Square,  intent  upon 
his  dinner.  The  mists  of  twilight  had  completely  cleared; 
the  night,  all  that  it  contained  within  its  hollowed  cup,  was 
worked  out  in  shades  of  clear  greenish-blue,  the  sky  pierced 
with  small,  pale  stars;  Nelson's  Column  and  the  Lions  which 
guarded  it,  a  darker  greenish-blue,  as  were  the  clothes,  the 
sombre  forms  of  the  crowd  hurrying  to  and  fro,  the  dense 
mass  of  houses,  the  fantastic  architecture  of  the  National 
Gallery;  while  the  water  in  the  fountain-basin  was  a  paler 
shade  of  the  same  colour,  sparsely  besprinkled  with  stars; 
the  faces  of  the  passers-by  paler  still,  as  though  of  people 
habitually  buried  in  cellars.  There  were  a  few  red  lights,  but 
very  few,  and  instinctively  one  disregarded  these;  looking 
aside  from  them,  as  from  an  impropriety,  from  those  faces 
which  broke  the  general  pallor  with  overmuch  rouge.  There 
are  some  nights  when  wantonness  seems  so  natural  as  to  be 
almost  right;  on  a  night  like  this,  however,  it  was  entirely  and 
obviously  out  of  place. 

The  air  must  have  been  full  of  sound,  the  roar  of  motor- 
busses,  the  shriek  and  whirr  of  taxis;  and  yet  the  whole  effect 
was  one  of  almost  overwhelming  quiet,  and  Paul  Vortonitch 
felt  it  as  a  cool  hand  upon  his  forehead:  this  London  in 
which  one  swam  like  a  fish  in  a  clear  glass  tank,  with  other 
fish  swimming  round,  flattening  their  noses,  so  near  and  yet 
never  really  touching  you. 

He  thought  of  all  this  with  appreciation,  for  he  was  alive 
to  every  sensation,  every  impression;  he  thought  of  his 
dinner:  savoury  omelette  with  mushrooms,  vol-de-veau, 


LAURA  CREICHTON  31 

fruit  and  a  pint  bottle  of  Chianti,  the  black  coffee  which  his 
soul  loved.  But  he  also  thought  of  Laura  Creichton.  There 
was  a  girl  for  you!  Apart  from  everything  else,  well — there 
was  a  girl! 

He  had,  during  his  varied  youth,  spent  one  term  at  a 
small,  rather  frowsty  and  highly-correct  school  at  St. 
Leonards;  from  there  he  had  attended  the  Church  of 
England  service,  and  heard  that  hymn  which  runs  somehow 
thus: 

As  pants  the  hart  for  cooling  streams, 

When  heated  in  the  chase, 
So  longs  my  soul  for  Thee,  dear  Lord, 
And  Thy  refreshing  grace. 

This  Miss  Creichton — that  was  what  she  was:  a  cooling 
stream,  a  garden  enclosed.  Paul  Vortonitch  had  never  been 
quite  near  to  anyone  so  exquisitely  clean  in  every  sort  of  way : 
there  were  women,  of  his  world,  ->r  a  world  habitually  near 
to  it,  who  bathed  and  manicured,  brushed,  polished,  perfumed 
without  ceasing.  But  here  was  a  different  sort  of  cleanliness. 
It  was  like  a  primrose,  unique  in  its  own  way.  The  very 
memory  of  it  was  like  a  cool  wind  upon  his  cheek  as  he 
hurried  onward  up  Charing  Cross  Road  and  turned  aside  into 
Soho;  though  it  dropped  away  as  he  pushed  open  the  swinging 
door  of  Le  Cygne  d'Or,  driven  back  by  the  thick  atmosphere 
of  humanity,  cheap  scent,  smoke,  wine,  and  over-rich  food. 


CHAPTER  IV 

As  Vortonitch  entered  the  restaurant,  two  or  three  men,  and 
one  woman,  looked  up  and  nodded,  while  he  nodded  back  again, 
smiling.  It  was  good  to  be  here,  in  this  cheerful  place;  it 
was  good  to  be  hungry,  with  the  smell  of  wine  and  food  in 
your  nostrils;  it  was  good  to  be  alive.  A  mood  of  fine  elation, 
which  he  was  old  enough  and  wise  enough  to  cherish,  held 
him.  He  did  not  want  to  sit  down  by  anyone,  talk  to  anyone 
but  just  to  feel:  such  sensations  were  growing  rarer;  if 
ever  they  vanished — completely  vanished,  and  he  had  moments 
of  fear — that  would  be  the  end  of  everything. 

The  lady  beckoned,  with  a  white  hand,  rings  upon  every 
finger;  patted  the  empty  seat  at  her  side.  But  Vortonitch 
shook  his  head,  with  a  gesture  of  mock  propriety:  then  threw 
her  a  light  kiss  from  the  tips  of  his  fingers:  upon  which — for 
though  she  was  not  what  is  called  educated,  she  was  wise 
enough  to  know  when  she  was  not  wanted  (it  was  only  those 
in  the  lowest  ranks  of  the  lowest  dregs  of  her  profession  who 
lacked  this  knowledge,  or  behaved  as  though  they  did),  she 
went  on  with  her  dessert,  spinning  it  out,  peeling  and  eating  a 
pear,  that  most  delicately  flavoured  of  all  fruits,  with  a  ciga- 
rette in  one  corner  of  her  poppy-red  lips,  still  hoping  that 
someone  might  turn  up  and  pay  her  bill  for  her. 

It  was  already  late.  One  by  one  the  diners  moved  away, 
mostly  in  groups,  chattering  and  laughing;  for  there  was  a 
pretty  regular  clientele  at  Le  Cygne  d'Or,  and  people — for  the 
most  part  foreigners,  prone  to  hold  together — had  got  into  the 
way  of  talking  to  each  other.  It  was  homely,  too.  Once  the 
rush  of  dinners  was  over,  before  the  suppers  began,  Madame 
Duval,  the  wife  of  the  proprietor,  and  real  master  of  the  house, 
would  come  in  with  her  mending  in  her  hand,  often  enough  a 
well-worn  sock  stretched  over  it,  and  talk  to  any  of  the  late- 
comers: for  the  most  part  of  the  scandalous  rise  in  prices, 
though  on  this  particular  evening  there  was  something  else  in 
her  mind. 

A  group  of  four  men  had  been  sitting  in  one  corner,  finishing 
their  dinner,  chatting  over  the  wine,  when  Vortonitch  entered. 

32 


LAURA  CREICHTON  33 

Apart  from  himself,  they  were  the  last  of  the  regular  diners  to 
leave  the  place,  and  even  then  one  of  them  lingered  behind, 
talking,  or  rather,  listening  to  Madame. 

The  room  had  once  been  a  double  one,  with  folding  doors; 
in  the  place  of  these  a  glass  partition  now  stood  half-way 
across  the  aperture,  some  five  feet  high,  and  decorated  with  a 
painting  supposed  to  depict  Etna  in  full  eruption:  smoke, 
fire,  human  beings — or,  rather,  fragments  of  arms,  legs. 
trunks,  odd  heads  hurtling  through  space — against  a  back- 
ground of  bright  blue  clouds. 

Madame  was  in  an  indignant  mood,  eager  to  voice  her 
grievance.  Only  the  evening  before,  a  young  English  under- 
graduate, dining  more  wisely  than  well,  had  knocked  off  the 
head  of  a  bottle  of  whiskey  against  the  top  of  Etna,  broken  the 
glass,  with  some  inane  joke  about  "  Cratur  to  Crater." 

His  party  had  paid  for  the  damage;  handsomely,  too — 
Madame  saw  to  this.  But,  all  the  same,  her  anger  remained 
unassuaged.  "  It  was  a  work  of  art,  monsieur  " — that  was 
what  she  said — "  a  work  immortal,  and  who  is  it  can  pay  for 
what  is  immortal  ?  " 

"  A  glass-worker  would  cut  a  little  figure  of  another  man, 
cheaper  still,  a  red  flame,  enclose  it  in  lead  and  insert  it  where 
the  glass  is  broken.  It  would  cost  perhaps  five  shillings,  and 
that,  Madame,  would  leave  you  two  pounds  fifteen  in  pocket. 
It  would  not  pay  for  the  insult  to  Art,  but  still  —  Eh  ?  " 

With  a  tactful  smile  and  gesture  of  sympathy  and  encour- 
agement, the  patient  listener  had  slipped  away,  and,  sitting 
down  opposite  to  Vortonitch,  leant  over  the  table  towards 
him. 

!'  Well  ?  " 

"  Well  ?  "  An  added  sense  of  that  disinclination  to  talk — 
to  talk  of  anything,  above  all  to  talk  of  that  afternoon's 
doings — swept  over  Vortonitch,  though  he  liked  this  man. 
trusted  him  as  much  as  he  ever  trusted  anyone;  looked  up  to 
him  with  a  sort  of  admiration  which  was  yet  tempered  with 
patronage.  He  was  wonderful,  in  many  ways — wonderful  ! 
There  was  nothing  he  was  afraid  of,  there  was  nothing  he 
would  stick  at;  his  placidity  was  one  of  the  most  amazing 
things  which  he  had  ever  come  across.  He  was  not  merely 
cool,  with  the  steely  eye  and  set  jaw  of  the  novelist's  hero, 
but  placid,  smiling,  dimpled — actually  dimpled.  And  so 
ordinary-looking  !  Of  course  this  was  the  "  very  thing."  If 
life  were  rendered  difficult  for  a  man,  by  the  forces  of  civilisa- 
tion, society — so  difficult,  so  complicated  that  it  was  necessary 


34  LAURA  CREICHTON 

for  him  to  avoid  everything  which  might  draw  attention  to 
himself — what  more  desirable  than  that  he  should  be,  in  his 
physical  person  at  least,  unnoticeable  ?  But  to  be  podgy, 
rosy,  almost  infantile — particularly  when  that  round  bald 
head,  in  itself  so  like  a  baby's,  happened  to  be  covered  with 
that  little  round  hat  of  his — here,  indeed,  to  the  mind  of 
Vortonitch,  in  himself  so  dramatic,  was  a  very  extravagance 
of  inconspicuousness,  so  complete  that  it  was  little  wonder 
that  he  allowed  his  sense  of  pity,  amusement,  to  flow  in  upon 
his  admiration. 

If  Grobo's  appearance  was  ridiculous,  his  domesticity  was 
equally  so;  his  adoration  for  his  wife  and  children,  equally 
ridiculous  and  equally  useful;  though,  to  do  the  little  fellow 
justice,  he  never  even  thought  of  this. 

His  prominent,  rather  watery  blue  eyes  were  full  upon 
Vortonitch's  sulky  face;  neither  keen  nor  watchful,  just 
pleasant,  slightly  solicitous. 

"  You  look  as  if  you  'ad  the  'eadache,  my  friend.  And 
what  wonder  !  The  sun  'ave  been  so  'ot — verri  'ot  for  the 
time  o'  year — 'ot  as  'ell." 

He  paused.  But  as  the  other  man  volunteered  no  reply, 
sat  drumming  with  his  fingers  on  the  table,  he  went  on: 

"  There  is  great  excite-e-ment  in  my  'ouse — she  'ave  cut 
two  teeth — two  !  An'  'er  only  six  months  old — at  the  top 
'ere  " — he  indicated  the  centre  of  his  own  upper  jaw.  "  An' 
both  of  them  together,  side  by  side.  My  friend,  do  you  'ear 
that  ?  Not  like  that  there  Albert,  the  young  good-for-nothing, 
'oo  chopped  up  'is  all  over  the  shop,  keepin'  us  all  awake  at 
nights;  the  neighbours  too,  keeping  them  all  awake,  getting 
out  their  chemises — what  is  it  you  call  it  ? — shirts  ?  My  wife 
is  right  when  she  say  that  the  girls  are  the  easiest  to  upbring. 
But  I  don't  know.  There  was  Lilee — but  of  course  she  was 
one  twin.  What  do  you  think,  eh,  my  friend  ?  " 

"  What  the  hell  are  you  talking  about  ?  " 

"  Mon  enfant — baby — 'er " 

"  Oh  !  "  Why  the  devil  did  Grobo  play  the  fool  in  this 
fashion  ?  His  English,  when  he  chose,  was  as  good  as  anyone 
else's.  He  would  get  himself  into  bad  habits,  and  then  there 
would  be  all  sorts  of  trouble,  thought  Vortonitch.  Oh,  well; 
he  for  one  was  dead  tired  of  the  fellow,  his  engrossment  with 
domesticities. 

He  got  up  roughly,  pushing  back  his  chair.  "  Look  here, 
Grobo;  I  must  go." 

"  Yes,  yes  !  "     The  little  rosy,  roundabout  man  bounced 


LAURA  CREICHTON  35 

to  his  feet:  "  I  also — we  are  early  people.  She  is  the  best  of 
babies,  bless  'er  'eart  ! — but  still,  you  know,  never  not  one 
entire  night's  sleep.  Ah,  but  teeth  are  teeth  !  Tch-tch  !  " 

He  lifted  his  round  felt  hat  from  the  table,  wiped  it  round 
with  his  sleeve,  while  the  waitress  made  out  the  other  man's 
account;  then  spoke  again,  with  an  expression  indescribably 
different  from  that  which  he  had  before  worn. 

"  Any  good  ?  " 

"  Not  a  damned  thing  to  be  seen.  Walls,  iron  gates,  iron 
spikes,  guards,  spies — or  so  I  suspect — no  means  of  locating 
anything.  Ach  !  I'm  sick  of  it  all.  A  Bastille  of  a  place  !  " 

"  Something  must  be  done;  someone  got  at."  Grobo's 
rosy  lips  were  pursed  so  that  he  looked  like  a  cherubim  with 
an  imaginary  trumpet. 

"  All  very  well — to  '  get  at '  anyone  !  Who'll  that  bring 
in,  I'd  like  to  know  ?  " 

'*  You're  sure  there  was  nothing — nobody  'oo  you  'ad 
'opes  of  ?— 'Oo— eh  ?  " 

"  Nobody  !  Haven't  I  told  you  ?  "  Vortonitch's  voice 
was  harsh.  He  moved  brusquely  away  from  the  table,  scarcely 
pausing  to  hand  in  his  bill  and  money  at  the  pay-desk  as  he 
passed.  The  other  man,  following  him,  caught  him  up  at  the 
door,  laid  a  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"  I  want  you  to  come  'ome  with  me." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  I  want  you." 

"  What  the  devil  for  ?— to  see  the  baby's  teeth  ?  " 

"No."  The  little  man  added  nothing  to  the  monosyl- 
lable, but  there  must  have  been  something  in  his  expression 
or  voice,  for  Paul  Vortonitch — grumbling,  complaining  that 
he  had  already  had  "  a  devil  of  a  day  " — followed  him  out  of 
the  door,  down  the  street;  turning  up  Charing  Cross  Road  in 
the  direction  of  Holborn. 

There  are  a  hundred  Londons  in  one:  a  patchwork  of 
nationalities,  morals,  manners:  Soho,  Shoreditch,  Limehouse, 
the  West  London  Docks — French,  Italians,  Greeks,  Poles, 
Chinese,  Malays,  Negroes. 

The  Grobos  lived  near  that  "  Italy  in  England,"  so  oddly 
named  Little  Britain;  near  to,  but  not  in  it,  a  trifle  further 
north  by  west,  just  off  Charterhouse  Square. 

By  now  the  moon  was  up,  high  in  the  sky,  unclouded  and 
almost  completely  full,  patterning  the  pavement  in  a  mosaic 
of  shadows  from  the  plane-trees. 

The  tall,  narrow  house  had  been  white,  was  white  now  in 


36  LAURA  CREICHTON 

that  moonlight  by  which  London  is  forever  at  her  best,  with 
high,  many-paned  windows  and  green  outside  shutters. 

At  one  side  stood  a  block  of  obscure  offices,  tenanted  by 
people  engrossed  in  the  sale  of  patent  medicines;  in  shady 
money  transactions;  in  illusionary  offers  of  employment  sub- 
ject to  the  payment  of  preliminary  fees;  in  building  ventures; 
in  the  supply  of  cups,  saucers,  and  tea-pots  with  unbreak- 
able spouts  for  use  in  offices,  for  the  army  of  tea-drinking 
typists. 

At  the  other  side  was  a  printing  business,  mainly  con- 
cerned with  posters  and  bills,  torn  fragments  of  which  eternally 
strewed  the  street,  trodden  into  the  mud,  driven  by  the  wind, 
banking  up  the  areas  with  drifts  of  crude  pink  and  blue, 
dirty-white. 

Oddly  enough,  it  was  the  people  connected  with  this 
establishment,  where  the  machines  ran  without  ceasing,  night 
and  day,  who  complained  most  bitterly  of  the  sequence  of 
young  Grobos,  their  loud  protests  against  that  miserable 
business  of  teething. 

If  there  was  ever  any  man  who  appeared,  almost  wantonly, 
as  it  were,  to  scatter  hostages  before  the  feet  of  Fate,  it  was 
Grobo:  and  yet,  how  proud  he  was,  how  happy  in  his  home 
life  !  Amazing  that  a  man  who  had  suffered  as  he  suffered, 
who  beneath  his  bland,  engaging  exterior  nourished  a  fierce 
resentment  against  society,  law,  order,  a  purpose  as  remorse- 
less as  death  itself,  should  yet  have  this  heart's  core  sound  and 
sweet  as  a  ripe  apple:  amazing,  yes,  almost  incredible,  were 
it  not  so  common:  the  love  of  home  and  family  combined 
with  a  mad  dog  hatred  of  all  legal  control. 

He  and  his  occupied  the  two  top  floors;  or,  rather,  they 
lived  in  the  top  floor  proper;  while  he  used  the  attics  above 
it,  one  large,  the  other  little  bigger  than  a  cupboard,  as  work- 
shop, store  and  meeting-place  for  his  friends;  these  attics  being 
untouched  by  the  general  staircase,  come  at  by  a  flight  of  steep 
unbacked  steps,  leading  up  out  of  the  Grobos'  one  living  room. 

Mrs.  Grobo  opened  the  door;  then  told  them  to  wait — 
"  Someone  with  you,  eh,  Carl  ? — a  moment  while  I  light  the 
gas.  The  children  have  left  they:  toys  in  the  passage." 
There  was  the  spurt  of  a  match,  a  flare  of  gas,  and  the  two 
men  entered,  while.  Mrs.  Grobo  pushed  aside  a  battered  wooden 
horse  and  rolled  a  rubber  ball  away  from  under  their  feet. 

"  Asleep,  eh  ?  "  questioned  Grobo  in  a  stage  whisper. 

His  wife  nodded,  fondly,  smiling:  "  I  hope  so.  Ah  ! 
There  !  Tut-tut  !  " 


LAURA  CREICHTON  37 

A  thin  wail  came  from  the  room  to  the  right.  "  Take  Mr. 
Vortonitch  in;  I  will  go  to  her,"  said  Grobo,  and  tiptoed 
away;  while  his  wife  turned  into  the  living  room,  which,  with 
the  addition  of  a  small  dark  scullery,  served  as  kitchen, 
dining  room,  nursery,  study;  with  a  well-worn  sofa  upon 
which  any  belated  visitor  could  be  put  to  sleep. 

A  small  boy,  thin  and  dark  as  his  mother,  with  straight 
sticks  of  legs,  sat  at  the  table,  still  busied  with  his  books, 
although  it  was  close  upon  eleven.  By  the  window  the  eldest 
of  the  family,  a  girl  of  twelve,  with  long  fair  plaits,  leant 
against  the  lintel,  her  mouth  a  little  open,  her  face  ghastly. 

"  The  heat  up  here,  the  sun,"  said  Mrs.  Grobo  in  her  tired 
flat  voice;  "terrible — oh,  terrible! — coming  so  early,  so 
suddenly.  Lilee,  my  child,  you  will  be  better  in  bed;  when 
once  you  are  asleep " 

"  There  is  no  air  anywhere,"  complained  the  girl.  "  I 
shall  be  stifled,  I  ...  Oh,  Paul,  I  didn't  know  it  was  you;  I 
thought  .  .  .  Oh,  but  I'm  tired.  I  think  I  ...  I  ...  Oh, 
dear  !  "  Her  voice  trailed  off,  as  though  she  were  too  weary 
to  finish  her  sentence. 

As  she  moved  forward,  with  her  eyes  upon  Vortonitch, 
puzzled  and  appealing,  he  put  out  one  hand  and  drew  her 
towards  him. 

He  was  impatient  with,  almost  contemptuous  of,  Grobo's 
incessant  talk  of  this  family  of  his;  and  yet  he  could  not  find 
himself  in  the  midst  of  it  without  being  touched  by  them  all — 
perhaps,  indeed,  this  was  a  part-reason  for  his  antagonism 
towards  the  little  man:  he  did  not  want  to  be  touched  by 
such  simple,  humdrum  things:  all  real  happiness  was  flaming, 
hectic,  wonderful;  such  a  life  as  that  lived  by  Grobo  and  his 
wife  was  too  thickly  overlaid  with  petty  worries,  anxieties,  for 
any  true  joy.  And  yet  .  .  .  and  yet  ... 

"  Tired,  Lily  ?  "  The  child  pressed  closer  and  leant  her 
head  against  his  shoulder.  As  he  put  an  arm  about  her,  he 
realised  her  fragility;  there  seemed  to  be  neither  bone  nor 
flesh  nor  muscle  to  her,  so  soft,  slender  and  yielding,  like  some 
delicate,  soft-fibred  plant. 

"Tired?  Oh,  Paul,  I  am  tired — tired — tired;  and  I  do 
so  want ' 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know;  but  I  want — I  want — I  want  .  .  . 
Oh,  something.  I  feel  all — oh,  going  out  like  a  candle,  with- 
out any  air — with  wanting." 

"  It's  funny,  that,"  broke  in  the  boy  at  the  table,  lifting 


38  LAURA  CREICHTON 

his  peaked  yellow  face,  lit  with  immense  dark  eyes,  heavily- 
marked  brows.  "  She's  a  silly,  always  whining  like  a  sick 
cat.  As  if  one  ever  got  anything  by  wishing  for  it  !  Working, 
working,  making  up  one's  mind,  screwing  it  up  tight — that's 
the  only  way.  But  still,  she  says  things — by  mistake,  the 
silly  ! — make  one  think.  A  candle,  now;  it  does  want  air — 
she's  right  there;  but  all  the  same,  if  one  blows  it  too  hard  it 
goes  out.  Why's  that,  eh,  Vortonitch  ?  Tell  me  that." 
Quite  lately,  this  boy  of  but  little  over  ten  years  had  taken 
to  speaking  to  his  father's  friends  as  though  they  were  his 
equals,  by  the  surname  alone. 

"  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  it's  the  force  of  the  air,  too  much 
for  it,  you  know."  He  was  stroking  Lily's  smooth  fair  hair, 
parted  in  the  middle,  divided  into  two  long  plaits.  He  had 
seen  hair  almost  that  colour  only  that  afternoon;  he  thought 
of  this,  and  his  touch  lingered: 

"That  makes  me  feel  better;  all  purry,  like  a  cat,"  sighed 
Lily.  "  If  only " 

"  How  are  we  to  know,  then  ?  "  broke  in  the  boy,  in  his 
sharp,  persistent  way,  hard  and  eager;  "to  judge  what  is 
and  what  isn't  enough  of  anything,  when  to  stop  blowing — 
not  only  with  candles,  but  .  .  .  oh,  everything  !  The  sort 
of  things  father's  so  sure  about,  now  ?  All  very  well  to  feel 
sure,  but  how  can  one  tell  ?  I — I — am  certain  of  nothing, 
nothing."  He  spoke  like  a  very  old  man,  who  has  tried  the 
world  and  all  its  ways — found  them  but  vanity.  "  Let  me 
tell  you  this,  comrade:  the  older  I  get  the  more  difficult  it 
seems.  There's  too  much,  and  you  take  away  a  little — ever  so 
little — then  there's  not  enough." 

"  Not  enough  of  what  ?  "  queried  Vortonitch,  hardly 
thinking  what  he  said,  dreaming  over  that  afternoon's  walk. 
Miss  Creichton,  wondering  what  her  Christian  name  could  be. 
"Lily" — that  was  a  pretty  name,  that  would  suit  her;  and 
yet,  somehow  or  other,  too  insipid. 

"Well,  take  the  question  of  race-suicide,  now;  birth- 
decline,  and  all  that  !  "  The  boy  spoke  loudly,  like  an 
orator:  of  course  he  heard  all  sorts  of  things,  repeated  what 
he  heard,  and  yet  he  used  his  own  mind,  put  two  and  two 
together.  "  Plainly,  it's  necessary  to  regulate  the  birth- 
rate  " 

"  Albert,  Albert  !  "  remonstrated  his  mother. 

"  Well,  it  is.  Look  at  us,  now :  there  are  too  many  of 
us.  Not  enough  room,  often  not  enough  to  eat,  all  because 
father " 


LAURA  CREICHTON  39 

"  Albert,  I  will  not  have  it  !  "  Mrs.  Grobo's  voice  was 
suddenly  and  unexpectedly  fierce. 

"Well  Stein  says " 

"  I  will  not  hear  what  Stein  says.  Go  on  with  thy  task — 
at  once;  do  you  hear  me  ?  " 

"  I  believe  I  know  what  it  is,"  said  Lily,  as  her  brother 
bent  over  his  books. 

"  What,  dear  ?  "  Vortonitch  pressed  his  cheek  against 
the  smooth  fair  head  as  he  spoke. 

"  Makes  me  feel  so  aching;  so — so  funny.  It's  because  I'm 
a  twin,  and  the  other  twin's  dead,  and  there's  only  sorterways 
half  of  me  left.  I  ache  here."  She  put  a  small  white  hand  to 
her  breast.  "  I  ache  here  as  though  I  were  all  empty.  It's 
horrid  !  I  wish  I  didn't  feel  like  dial — I  wish " 

"  It's  anaemia,"  said  Mrs.  Grobo,  in  answer  to  Vortonitch's 
anxious  glance.  "  The  doctor  says  that  she  ought  to  be  in  the 
country;  there  is  not  enough  red  blood;  the  heart  and  lungs 
work  too  slowly,  faintly.  Perhaps  when  the  spring's  really 

over "  Her  lips  were  folded  anxiously,  her  brooding, 

tender  eyes  were  on  her  little  daughter,  resting  so  languidly 
against  the  young  man's  shoulder.  "  It  is  difficult  to  say; 
at  that  age — there  are  all  sorts  of  things " 

A  door  into  the  living  room  had  opened  while  she  spoke., 
and  a  small  fat  girl  of  about  two,  dimpling,  rosy,  her  eyes  still 
bright  and  shining  with  sleep,  appeared  there,  enframed  in  the 
darkness  behind  her,  her  over-long  nightgown  gathered  up  in 
one  dimpled  hand,  showing  a  fat  knee,  the  curve  of  a  plump 
thigh.  She  smiled  sideways  at  Vortonitch,  displaying  more 
dimples,  a  double  row  of  tiny  white  teeth  in  a  gipsy-brown 
face;  then  ran  to  her  mother,  clambered  on  her  knee. 

Without  a  word,  Mrs.  Grobo  enfolded  her,  continued  her 
darning,  with  both  arms  round  her.  After  a  few  minutes' 
pause,  a  boy,  slightly  older,  perhaps  five,  shyer  and  more  self- 
conscious,  followed  her;  sat  down  on  the  hearth  rug  and 
began  playing  with  the  cat. 

From  further  along  the  passage  came  the  sound  of  an 
infant  whimpering,  a  man's  voice  raised  in  an  odd  flat  chant. 

"  They  ought  to  be  asleep  by  now,  you  know,  Mrs.  Grobo," 
said  Vortonitch.  "  That's  why  the  children  you  see  in  the 
parks  here,  the  upper-class  children,  look  so  well.  They're 
packed  off  to  bed  at  six — seven  at  the  latest." 

"  I  know,  I  know.  But  here  it  is  always  too  hot  or  too 
cold;  there  is  no  quiet — people  coming  and  going  all  the 
time.  Grobo  adores  them,  but  he  does  not  understand. 


40  LAURA  CREICHTON 

To-night,  for  instance,  the  baby  was  asleep.  This  place  is 
too  small  for  quiet;  we  all  live  too  close  together.  It  is  bad 
for  children;  as  Lily  says,  there  is  not  enough  air;  they  see 
too  much,  hear  too  much.  It  makes  them  old  before  their 
time.  Bad  ?  Yes — late  hours  and  all — and  yet  not  altogether 
bad.  What  is  ?  It  keeps  them  awake  in  a  way  those  children 
of  whom  you  speak  are  never  awake,  never  will  be  awake. 
Besides,  it's  in  their  blood;  in  Grobo's  blood,  and — above  all 
— in  mine:  this  wakefulness." 

She  spoke  with  a  sort  of  slow  passion.  Vortonitch  knew 
very  little  of  her  apart  from  the  fact  that  she  was  a  Russian, 
and  had  been,  with  her  parents,  in  Siberia;  she  never  joined 
in  the  talk  between  her  husband  and  his  friends,  took  any 
part  in  their  plans;  he  had  never  even  heard  her  express 
herself  as  she  did  now.  One  might  have  been  tempted  to 
regard  her  as  a  mere  housewife,  mother  of  children,  if  it  had 
not  been  for  that  air  of  tense,  brooding  tragedy  manifest 
beneath  her  tenderness. 

"  God  knows,  if  we'd  not  been  wakeful  we'd  not  be  here 
now,"  she  added. 

The  sounds  at  the  further  end  of  the  passage  ceased,  and 
Grobo,  who  had  taken  off  his  boots,  came  padding  in,  the 
infant  in  his  arms,  another  child  just  able  to  toddle  hanging 
on  to  his  coat — that  long-tailed  coat  he  was  so  fond  of  and 
which  went  so  oddly  with  the  little  round  hat. 

"  My  treasure,  they're  both  awake.  I  am  in  the  soup — I 
am  disgraced  !  And  now — now,  of  all  times,  when  I  'ad  just 
been  telling  my  friend  here  how  she  was  an  angel."  His  voice, 
his  aspect,  was  ludicrously  deprecating,  mortified. 

"Give  her  to  me;  maybe  she's  hungry.  And  Lilee,  child 
take  Joseph  back  to  his  bed." 

Moving  away  from  Paul's  side,  Lily  raised  the  toddler  in 
her  slender  arms  and  went  from  the  room,  staggering  all  side- 
ways; while  her  mother,  without  disturbing  the  other  child, 
now  asleep  upon  her  knee,  settled  her  youngest  offspring, 
partly  upon  the  top  of  it,  partly  within  a  crook  of  her  own 
arm;  undid  the  front  of  her  dress  and  bent  forward  until  the 
tiny  pouting  lips  closed  round  the  nipple  of  her  breast;  then 
picked  up  the  sock  she  was  darning,  and  went  on  with  it. 

"  Albert,  it  is  time  you  were  in  bed.  Put  your  books  by, 
and  take  Charles  with  you.  .  .  .  No,  no,  little  one;  leave 
pussy;  he,  too,  wishes  to  sleep."  Rocking  gently  to  and 
fro  with  her  double  burden,  the  mother  directed  her  little 
regiment,  plying  her  needle. 


LAURA  CREICHTON  41 

Grobo  was  gazing  at  them.  "  A  picture,  a  picture  !  "  he 
said.  "  I  did  'er  a  wrong,  the  poor  little  one.  She  was 
'ungry,  that's  all;  'ungry.  'Er  mother  knew.  Trust  a 
mother  for  that  !  "  There  was  a  smiling  beatitude  in  his 
face,  which  vanished  as  he  turned  towards  the  other  man. 

"  Now,  if  you  will  come  up  with  me,  eh  ?  I  won't  keep 
you  long,  but  I  want  to  show  you  ...  In  case  anything 
should  'appen  to  me.  One  never  knows." 

He  took  a  light,  and  they  mounted  to  the  attics  above. 
What  he  had  to  speak  of,  show,  took  longer  than  they  had 
anticipated,  and  half-way  through  Vortonitch  ran  downstairs 
in  search  of  a  fresh  candle. 

Mrs.  Grobo  was  sitting  where  they  had  left  her,  with  the 
two  children  on  her  knees.  One  arm  encircled  them  both; 
her  head  was  bowed  forward  upon  the  hand  of  the  other,  with 
the  half-darned  sock  still  stretched  out  upon  it.  At  first 
sight  Vortonitch  thought  that  she  was  asleep,  but  as  he 
moved  towards  the  cupboard,  where  he  had  been  told  that 
he  would  find  a  candle,  she  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  at  him. 

An  amazing  glance  !  One  thinks  ol  patience — apart  from 
what  is  required  for  actual  work — as  something  but  half  alive, 
like  resignation;  but  here  was  a  patience  vital  beyond  words, 
infinite,  unwavering,  almost  godlike. 

What  was  she  waiting  for,  so  surely,  this  overworked  mother 
of  many  children  ? 

Paul  Vortonitch  pondered  over  this  after  he  got  back  to 
his  own  rooms.  The  day  had  been  so  full  that  he  found  it 
difficult  to  settle  to  sleep:  Woolwich,  that  obese  white-faced 
man  who  had  dogged  his  footsteps — Ah,  he  had  meant  to  ask 
Grobo  about  him,  forgotten — the  fair-haired  girl  in  creamy- 
v.hite,  swinging  the  pink  silk  jacket  and  tennis  racquet  in  her 
hand  as  she  walked;  Grobo  and  his  family;  the  contents  of 
those  cupboards,  lining  the  side  of  the  smaller  attic,  which  the 
little  man  had  unlocked  and  shown  to  him:  rows  upon  rows 
of  round  tins  like  nothing  so  much  as  a  careful  housewife's 
reserve  store;  all  that  ever-ready,  modern  paraphernalia  for 
the  preservation  of  life,  all  alike  ran  to  and  fro  through  his 
mind. 

The  preservation  of  life  !  Ye  gods  !  They  were  even 
labelled  "Coffee,"  "Cocoa,"  "Raspberry  Jam,"  "Golden 
Syrup,"  "  Condensed  Milk,"  "  Tinned  Fruits,"  etc.  And  yet — 
and  yet  ...  Talk  of  "  death  in  the  pot "  ! 

How  different  Grobo  had  been  then;  the  doting  father  and 
husband  completely  vanished.  Nothing  apart  from  illness  or 


42  LAURA  CREICHTON 

extreme  old  age  could  greatly  change  his  outward  appearance 
— those  cherubic  curves,  that  funny  little  roundabout  figure; 
but  as  he  was  then  and  there,  the  mind  of  him,  that  fiercely- 
concentrated,  remorseless  mind,  as  he  had  been  before,  many 
times,  as  his  whole  record  showed  him  to  be:  all  this  ren- 
dered his  artless  appearance  in  some  way  dreadful,  an  alto- 
gether damning  commentary  upon  all  judgment  of  character 
by  outward  appearance;  a  complete  undermining  of  all  trust 
in  one's  fellows. 

Running  his  mind  back  over  Grobo's  past  life,  counting 
over  those  things  which  had  made  him  trusted,  admired,  aye, 
and  feared,  even  by  those  in  authority,  those  who  were  far, 
far  above  Vortonitch,  above  himself — above  those  who  were 
again,  and  trebly,  in  authority  above  them — one's  very  soul 
shrank,  as  the  flesh  shrinks  and  shrivels  back  from  a  burn: 
"An  arch-devil,  among  hypocrites;  a  very  tiger  in  cruelty, 
lust  of  blood,"  one  might  have  said.  And  yet  one  would 
have  been  wrong.  He  was  not  a  hypocrite,  in  anything  apart 
from  the  fact  that  he  kept  his  business  to  himself,  as  all  really 
good  business  men  do;  his  simplicity  was  real,  his  family 
affections  were  intensely  real.  In  most  ways  he  was  not  even 
cruel;  not  for  the  world  would  he  have  tormented  an  animal, 
said  anything  to  hurt  the  feelings  of  any  poor  person. 

It  was  just — Ah  well,  some  people  are  white,  and  some 
are  black;  and  some  are  grey,  lighter  or  darker,  uniform  or 
oddly  patched.  Carl  Grobo  was  black  and  white,  clear-cut  in 
two;  without  the  faintest  merging  of  one  into  the  other  in 
any  single  direction. 

What  was  it  he  had  said  ?  "  The  dockyards ;  the  Arsenal ; 
the  military  academies:  Woolwich  first,  then  Sandhurst;  then 
Portsmouth — Dartmouth — root  and  branch,  all  militarism,  all 
tyrants,  and  the  brood  of  tyrants " 

"  The  worst  of  it  all  is  the  amount  of  injured,  maimed  .  .  . 
Beastly,  that  !  "  was  what  Vortonitch  himself  said.  He  did 
not  so  much  mind  suffering  if  it  were  well  away  out  of  sight; 
but  that  day  his  own  father  was  killed — the  day  so  many 
innocents  suffered  with  him  ! — phew  ! —  Horrible  ! 

"  Ah,  there  you're  wrong,"  cried  Grobo.  "  Killing  is 
good;  for  some  people  there's  nothing  else  possible;  they 
must  be  put  out  of  the  way  once  and  for  all.  But  for  others 
.  .  .  The  dead  are  forgotten;  it  is  the  maimed,  the  disfigured 
who  put  the  fear  of  God  into  their  fellows.  There  is  a  'ospital 
not  far  out  of  London  for  the  treatment  of  soldiers  who  are 
suffering  from  facial  disfigurements,  wounds,  burns.  I 


LAURA  CREICHTON  43 

managed  to  get  shown  round  it  once,  not  so  long  ago:  I 
wanted  to  see — plan.  Ah,  the  dreams  that  it  brought  to  me, 
my  friend  !  'Ow  I  fed  my  eyes,  my  imagination  !  What  a 
vista  spread,  stretching  out  before  me  !  If  every  crowned 
'ead,  if  every  titled  man  and  woman,  every  pot-bellied 
profiteer,  wire-pulling  politician,  could  be  made  to  look  like 
that — like  that,  thought  I,  they  would  be  of  more  use  to  us 
alive  than  dead.  Look  'ere,  mon  ami;  I  tell  you  there  was 
one  man  .  .  ." 

He  had  paused,  had  actually  licked  his  lips,  before  going 
off  into  such  details  that  Vortonitch  had  retched;  been  glad 
to  run  downstairs  in  search  of  that  extra  candle. 

When  he  returned,  Grobo's  flight  of  fancy  had  ceased,  and 
he  was  practical  again,  going  over  his  stores  with  the  other 
man;  making  a  list  of  everything,  supplying  him  with  the 
most  exact  instructions,  for  all  the  world  like  some  petty 
tradesman  busy  over  his  stock-taking. 

"  What  about  you  and  your  family  if  the  whole  damned 
thing  went  off,  when  you  were  not  expecting  it  ?  "  There 
was  malice  in  Paul  Vortonitch's  question  as  he  prepared  to 
follow  his  host  back  into  the  lower  rooms. 

"  You  forget ;  the  explosion  works  upwards,  not  down- 
wards," answered  Grobo  placidly. 

"  But  if — supposing  something  did  happen  ?  " 

The  other  swung  round  to  him  at  this;  his  rosy  face 
purplish,  his  blue  eyes  half  out  of  his  head. 

"  And  do  you  think — you,  you,  my  God  !  knowing  the 
world  as  you  do — do  you  think  as  'ow  I'd  not  rather  'ave  them 
dead,  blown  to  bits,  than  left  alone  at  the  mercy  of  the  world 
— a  civilisation  in  comparison  with  which  the  wolves  on  the 
Russian  steppes  are  kind,  gentle,  humane  !  " 

That  ridiculous  accent  was  gone.  He  used  it  in  public,  in 
moments  of  relaxation;  but  he  also  used  it  among  his  children, 
in  the  bosom  of  his  family,  so  it  was  in  no  way  an  armour — 
perhaps  more  like  the  loose  old  coat  which  a  business  man 
slips  into  during  his  moments  of  leisure;  easy,  homely — 
simply  that,  and  yet  as  baffling  as  everything  else  so  super- 
ficially simple  in  this  strange  personality. 

When  he  talked  to  Paul  Vortonitch,  up  in  that  attic  so 
pregnant  with  horrors,  he  might  have  been  a  man  of  almost 
any  nationality.  But,  after  all,  what  nationality  was  he  ? 
Vortonitch  had  no  idea;  no  one  had  any  idea,  unless  it  might 
be  those  who  were  the  real  wire-pullers,  so  far  away  at  the 
back  of  everything  that  their  very  names  were  unknown:  as 


44  LAURA  CREICHTON 

unknown  as  the  origin,  the  source  of  the  appellation  of  this 
mysterious  personage. 

Grobo — -Grobo  !  What  sort  of  a  name  was  that  ?  No 
name  at  all,  devoid  of  meaning  in  connection  with  any  known 
language. 

Someone  had  once  declared  him  to  be  a  Jew,  a  German 
Jew.  But  with  that  nose  like  a  soft  dab  of  putty,  how  was  it 
possible  ?  No,  no;  he  was,  and,  as  it  seemed,  would  forever 
remain,  a  mystery  swathed  round  in  that  inimitable  panoply 
of  simplicity;  the  more  baffling  in  that  it  was  a  real,  integral 
part  of  himself. 


CHAPTER  V 

"  WHAT'S  happened  to  Laura  ?  " 

It  seemed  as  though  summer,  over-confident  and  proud, 
had  met  with  some  sort  of  a  rebuff,  drawn  back,  sulky,  dis- 
comfited. It  was  less  than  a  fortnight  since  Laura  Creichton 
had  played  tennis  at  the  Hendersons',  run  to  catch  the  bus 
at  the  bottom  of  Shooters'  Hill;  and  yet  it  might  have  been 
thought  that  here  was  the  onset  of  autumn,  with  chilling 
wind,  scudding  drift  of  rain. 

"  It  almost  seems  as  though  the  days  were  getting  shorter 
instead  of  longer.  I  said  to  Cook,  talking  about  the  price  of 

coal,  this  morning,  '  Now  that  the  winter's  coming '  You 

should  have  seen  her  stare.     But  do  you  wonder  ?  " 

"  Wonder "  that  the  cook  stared,  "  wonder "  that  it 
seemed  like  autumji.  Gerald  Stratton,  sitting,  talking  to  Lady 
Creichton  in  that  long  white  drawing  room — built  for  an 
orangery  during  the  Regent's  day,  when  there  was  a  "  mode  " 
for  such  things — running  out  at  one  side  of  The  House,  full 
in  the  eye  of  the  sun,  when  it  was  pleased  to  shine,  found 
himself  wondering — on  the  top  of  that  wonder  regarding 
Laura — why  it  was  that  women  had  such  oddly-forked  minds, 
his  own  forking  every  bit  as  oddly. 

"  How   do   you   mean,   '  What's   happened   to   Laura  ?  ' 
went  on  Lady  Creichton  smoothly.   "  Fancy  a  fire  in  June  ! — 
isn't  it  an  amazing  climate  ?     She's  in,  isn't  she  ?     I  thought 
I  heard  you  speaking  to  her  in  the  hall.  .  .  .  Oh,  tea  !     What 
a  blessing  !  " 

"  Oh  yes — yes — I  did  speak  to  her,  for  a  moment." 

"  Then  what  do  you  mean  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  Parker,  you  must 
get  another  table.  That  little  thing  of  mine,  you  know  Gerry, 
went  to  the  Blind  Asylum — weeks,  oh,  weeks  and  weeks 
ago " 

"  What's  that  ?  " 

She  caught  his  puzzled,  enquiring  glance.  "  Oh,  the 
basket-stand  for  the  bread-and-butter.  They  promised  it  in 
three  days,  and  they've  not  sent  it  back  yet.  Thank  you, 
Parker;  that  will  do  nicely;  and  will  you  tell  Miss  Laura  ? 

45 


46  LAURA  CREICHTON 

.  .  .  Perhaps   she's  got   a   cold,   Gerry.     Quiet,    you   mean, 
eh?" 

"  Yes,  perhaps.    Oh,  I  don't  know,  but  somehow  different." 

"My  dear  man,  there's  nothing  like  a  cold  for  making 
anyone  different.  Cream  ? — sugar  without  cream,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  please.  Still  .  .  .  Oh,  but  there're  other  things  apart 
from  colds,  you  know,  Lady  Creichton.  Love,  for  instance." 

"  That  child  !  Why,  she's  not  properly  out  yet.  I'd 
been  wondering  about  the  Drawing-Room  this  year,  Gerald; 
but  I  think  I'll  wait;  she  is  so  young  for  her  age;  and  with 
the  Court  in  mourning — half-mourning,  but  still  mourning — 
and  all.  ...  It  does  seem  dreadful,  doesn't  it  ?  So  nearly 
related  to  our  own  Royal  Family,  and  so  very  popular,  cut  off 
like  that,  without  any  warning."  She  veered  like  a  skidding 
motor-car  toward  the  topic  which  had  engrossed  people's 
minds  for  the  last  few  days — the  assassination  at  Bucharest — 
then  broke  off,  peering  into  the  tea-pot. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  about  that."  Stratton  crossed  one 
knee  over  the  other  and  ran  a  long  slender  hand  down  an 
immaculate  grey  silk-clad  ankle.  "It  appears  that  there  was 
some  sort  of  a  warning — sent  from  England,  too." 

"  From  England  ?     But  what " 

"Oh,  well,  of  course  it  mayn't  have  had  anything  to  do 
with  it,  really,  you  know.  Just  a  photograph  .  .  ." 

"  What  photograph  ?  " 

"  The  photograph  of  a  man,  one  of  our  soldiers,  who  .  .  . 
Oh,  terribly  disfigured,  smashed  up  in  the  war." 

"  But  what  did  he  want  to  send  it  for  ?  One  of  our 
soldiers,  and  the  Prince  of  ...  A  scone  while  they're  hot, 
Gerry  ?  " 

"  He  didn't  send  it,  poor  beggar  !  Why,  they  wouldn't 
have  even  shown  it  to  him,  for  anything  on  earth:  it  was 
stolen  from  a  file." 

"What  file?" 

"  The  hospital  file,  the  hospital  where — where  the  man  is." 

"  Does  he  know  ?  " 

"God  forbid!" 

"But,  Gerry,  I  don't  understand;  what  could  that  have 
to  do  with  an  outrage  of  this  sort  ?  " 

"There  was  something  written  on  it.  I  forget  the  exact 
words,  but  something  tantamount  to  saying  that  if  he  did  not 
abdicate,  he  might  find  himself  like  .  .  .  Oh,  well,  like  that." 

"Well,  he  didn't  abdicate.  ...  I  wonder  why  Laura 
doesn't  come  in  to  tea  ? — I  admire  him  for  that.  Harry 


LAURA  CREICHTON  47 

always  says,  if  people  once  allow  themselves  to  be  terrorised 
they  must  be  prepared  for  anything — anything!" 

"No,  he  didn't  abdicate,  and  now  .  .  .  Poor  chap,  one 
must  be  thankful  he  is  dead!" 

"Was  he  .  .  .?"  Lady  Creichton  paused,  her  mild  eyes 
wide  with  interrogation. 

"Terribly,  terribly!  And  it  wasn't  meant  to  kill;  they 
realised  that  from  the  way  it  was  thrown." 

"Ah,  well,  it's  a  mercy  we  don't  have  things  like  that  in 
England — somehow,  we  English  are  different.  That's  what 
I  thought,  Gerry;  you  see,  Marjorie's  two  years  younger 
than  Laura:  it  would  never  do  to  bring  them  both  out 
together — people  seem  to  take  so  much  more  notice  of  Mar- 
jorie.  But  as  it  is  two  years,  and  Laura  is  so  very  young  for 
her  age — with  the  Court  in  mourning  and  all,  and  everything 
so  dreadfully  dear.  ...  I  only  hope  they'll  catch  the  wretch 
who  threw  that  dreadful  bomb-thing.  .  .  ." 

"  Or  the  people  who  made  it." 

"Some  more  cake?  No?  Nothing — you're  sure?  .  .  . 
Of  course,  what  ought  to  be  done  with  such  people  is  to  blow 
them  up  with  their  own  bombs,"  Lady  Creichton  ran  on,  in 
her  vague  monotone.  "  I  might  have  presented  her  this  year, 
but  then,  again,  I  mightn't." 

"It  wouldn't  do  any  good,  that's  the  worst  of  it,"  said 
Stratton.  It  was  impossible  to  keep  pace  with  Lady  Creich- 
ton's  veerings,  and  his  mind  was,  for  the  moment,  upon  the 
tragedy  in  the  Near  East:  the  memory  of  another  such  tragedy 
which  had  led  to  such  far-reaching  and  disastrous  ends. 
"  There's  always  someone  ready  to  replace  a  man  who  dies  for 
a  cause,  however  mistaken.  What  one  wants  is  to  get  at  the  very 
root  of  the  organisation;  better  still,  at  the  mind  of  the  people 
who  pin  their  faith  upon,  risk  their  lives  for,  such  things — lay 
them  open  to  the  clear  light  and  air.  Because  they  are  enemies 
of  a  set  society,  underground,  circuitous,  they  are  dangerous, 
wrong.  But  they  can't  be  altogether  wrong,  or  they  would 
betray  one  another.  If  we  could  only  try  to  understand  each 
other,  we  might  find  that  it  is  their  methods  alone  which  are 
wrong;  that  our  aspirations  are,  in  the  bulk,  the  same.  We 
all,  I  suppose,  mean  well." 

Stratton  came  to  a  pause  with  a  rather  sad  little  laugh. 
That  "meaning  well" — what  could  be  more  melancholy? — 
that  laugh  of  his,  too,  puzzling  and  exasperating  his  fellows: 
the  laugh  of  a  man  who  condones,  without  any  special  hope 
for  humanity.  He  spoke  now  as  one  who  expected  nothing 


48  LAURA  CREICHTON 

from  his  listener.  Indeed,  excepting  for  the  fact  that  he  was 
sane  enough  not  to  talk  to  himself,  there  might  not  have  been 
one;  for  he  was  simply  talking  out  this  matter  which  had 
engrossed  his  mind  for  the  last  two  days,  in  fact,  ever  since 
he  had  heard  of  the  outrage;  turning  it  this  way  and  that, 
endeavouring  to  get  some  fresh  light  upon  it.  Brutal  as  it 
sounds,  it  was  not  the  one  outrage,  even  the  death  of  one 
prince,  the  mind  of  the  one  individual  who  perpetrated  it,  of 
a  group  of  individuals,  of  a  single  nation,  which  pre-occupied 
him,  filled  him  with  foreboding;  but  the  predisposition  to 
such  things  which  he  and  some  of  his  more  precocious  friends 
in  the  Government  and  Secret  Service,  among  the  highly-placed 
police  officials,  realised  as  rampant  throughout  the  world — 
the  predisposition  towards,  the  tolerance  of,  slaughter,  that 
rashest  cutting  of  any  Gordian  knot. 

Some  years  earlier,  a  curious  incident — if  one  may  call 
murder  by  such  a  name — had  taken  place  upon  the  long,  nar- 
row landing-stage  running  out  into  the  bay  at  Valona. 

A  man,  generally  suspected  of  leanings  towards  the  Turks, 
had  been  standing  there,  waiting  for  his  steamer,  amid  a 
crowd  of  country-folk,  for  it  was  market-day.  Just  as  he 
was  preparing  to  embark,  a  well-known  Albanian  gentleman 
and  patriot  had  walked  up  to  him  and,  without  a  word  of 
warning,  shot  him  through  the  head,  shooting  downwards  from 
above,  so  that  there  should  be  no  danger  of  anyone  else  being 
injured,  then  turned,  and  walked  coolly  away,  up  the  long 
road  to  the  town. 

No  one  had  done  anything,  said  anything,  interfered  with 
him  in  any  sort  of  way.  Hearing  of  it  from  one  of  those 
Dutch  officers  who  had  been  called  upon  to  help  form  an 
Albanian  Army,  himself  an  eye-witness  of  the  affair,  it  was 
not  so  much  the  crime  itself  that  had  struck  Stratton  as  the 
unexcited,  non-committal  attitude  of  the  crowd;  the  fact  that 
there  would  have  been  more  excitement  shown  over  the  death 
of  a  dog. 

"A  thing  like  that  could  not  happen,  in  that  way,  in 
England;  it  is  purely  Oriental."  That  was  what  he  had  said, 
just  as  Lady  Creichton  now  declared: 

"  It's  a  mercy  we  don't  have  things  like  that  in  England." 

"As  yet,  as  yet,"  added  Stratton  to  himself.  For  that 
was  one  lesson  out  of  many  which  he  had  learnt  from  the  war : 
"Nothing  was  impossible;  only  just  round  the  corner,  as  it 
were." 

"  After  all,  terrorism  is  not  an  end,  but  a  hoped-for  means 


LAURA  CREICHTON  49 

to  some  end.  There  must  be  a  reason  for  it  all:  some  definite 
aim,  as  they — Nihilists,  Anarchists,  and  people  like  that — 
see  it." 

"It's  just  wickedness,  that's  what  it  is;  nothing  more  or 
less,"  declared  Lady  Creichton,  with  sudden  decision.  "  There's 
no  meaning  or  sense  either  in  wickedness." 

"But  there  are  different  sorts  of  wickedness.  Political 
crimes  like  this  for  instance:  they're  not  the  same  as  burg- 
laries, murder  for  personal  ends.  They  have  some  sort  of 
ideal  at  the  back  of  them;  that's  what  makes  them  so  difficult. 
The  worst  of  it  all  is  that  no  man  can  see  his  own  age  clearly. 
What's  treason  now  may  yet  come  to  be  regarded  as  the  highest 
form  of  patriotism.  Every  generation  gets  things  at  a  fresh 
angle,  be  sure  of  that.  We  shouldn't  have  a  statue  of  Crom- 
well in  the  front  of  the  Houses  of  Parliament,  Abraham  Lin- 
coln facing  Westminster  Abbey,  if  they  didn't." 

"  I  don't  see  what  Abraham  Lincoln  has  to  do  with  throw- 
ing bombs,  and  all  that,"  remarked  Lady  Creichton,  with  great 
good  sense;  thinking  that  it  was  no  wonder  other  men,  even 
those  of  his  own  party,  spoke  of  Gerald  Stratton  as  a  "cold- 
blooded visionary." 

"The  emancipation  of  slaves — I  suppose  it's  what  we're 
all  after,  more  or  less;  if  we  think  of,  try  to  think  for,  our 
fellow-creatures  in  any  sort  of  way." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure.  One  doesn't  know 
what  to  think;  everything  seems  so  different  to  what  it  used 
to  be,"  answered  Lady  Creichton,  in  a  confused  way.  She  was 
fond  of  Stratton,  whom  she  had  known  all  her  life,  as  a  little 
boy  when  she  was  a  big  girl;  but  for  all  that,  she  was  unable 
to  understand  him.  She  herself  slid  aside  from  what  was 
difficult,  while  it  seemed  as  though  he  went  out  of  his  way  to 
meet  it;  the  disconcerting  part  of  the  whole  thing  being  that, 
having  met  it,  he  walked  round  and  round  it  until  he  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  it  was  no  difficulty  after  all;  or,  rather, 
that  if  you  looked  at  it  from  one  side  it  was  perfectly  right, 
natural  and  easily  understood;  though,  looking  at  it  from  the 
other,  you  might  have  been  inclined  to  condemn. 

"  It  all  depends  on  how  you  look  at  things." 

That  was  what  he  said.  It  was  like  that  loose  assertion 
that  morality  is  nothing  more  than  a  question  of  latitude  and 
longitude;  or  that  other — "Orthodoxy  is  my  doxy,  hetero- 
doxy is  another  man's  doxy."  The  sort  of  thing  that  did  not 
do  you  any  good,  gave  people  an  uneasy  feeling  that  you  were 
difficult  to  understand. 


50  LAURA  CREICHTON 

No  wonder  they  said,  "  Stratton's  all  right  in  his  way,  but 
he's  got  no  real  policy !"  A  wider  judgment  than  Lady 
Creichton's  condemned  him  here;  for  he  was  cursed  with 
that  sort  of  disposition  which  sees  all  round  every  question. 
If  he  could  have  cut  his  brain  in  half,  compassed  bigotry, 
seen  nothing  but  his  own  path,  his  own  well-rolled,  nicely- 
gravelled,  turf -bordered  front  drive  in  front  of  him,  his  future 
as  Prime  Minister — with  his  family  traditions,  his  talent — was 
assured.  As  it  was,  he  owed  his  place  to  the  fact  that  some 
one  man  of  his  name  had  always  been  in  the  Cabinet;  added 
to  the  indisputable  fact  that  the  way  he  had  of  seeing  all 
round,  over  and  beneath  things,  though  a  nuisance  in  England, 
could  prove  itself  a  very  useful  quality  in  dealing  with  foreign 
affairs;  when  it  might  be  necessary  to  take  into  account  other 
views  than  one's  own:  not  that  it  was  often  done;  or,  indeed, 
regarded  as  quite — quite  the  thing. 

"  Why,  here's  the  sun ! "  exclaimed  Lady  Creichton.  "  It 
was  growing  so  dark,  one  imagined  it  was  the  end  of  the  day; 
and  really  it's  only  just  five!  But  of  course,  it's  partly  the 
cedar.  I'm  always  telling  Harry  .  .  .  Ah,  there  you  are  at 
last.  My  dear,  what  have  you  been  doing?"  she  broke  off, 
as  her  elder  daughter  entered  the  room. 

"  Level-fronted  as  the  dawn  " — that  was  the  thought  which 
came  to  Stratton. 

"  I  got  wet,  and  had  to  change." 

"Where  on  earth  had  you  been?" 

"  Only  for  a  walk,  mother;  nowhere  in  particular,  at  least. 
Have  you  both  finished  tea?" 

"You  seem  to  be  always  going  walks,  now." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know — one  must  have  some  sort  of  exercise." 

"Did  you  meet  anyone?"  Lady  Creichton  had  taken  up 
her  knitting,  and  shot  out  this  question  in  the  midst  of  her 
counting.  Stratton,  who  had  risen,  and  now  stood  in  front 
of  tbe  wood  fire,  was  surprised  to  see  that  Laura  changed 
colour;  a  sudden  flare  of  delicate  pink,  and  then  she  was  pale 
again. 

"Oh,  any  amount  of  people  running  in  from  the  rain, 
scurrying  along,  looking  so  funny,  like  shining  beetles,  with 
their  umbrellas  and  mackintoshes.  But  I  suppose  they'll  all 
be  crawling  out  again  now  it's  stopped.  The  sun's  shining 
like  anything;  the  cedar-tree  keeps  it  off  this  room,  but  it's 
lovely,  and  everything  smells  so  fresh  and  sweet." 

Stratton  had  half-turned,  was  examining  the  little  orna- 
ments on  the  mantelshelf;  to  all  appearances  engrossed.  He 


LAURA  CREICHTON  51 

had  never  known  Laura — his  special  favourite — attempt  any- 
thing like  subterfuge  before.  And  this !  Well,  it  was 

so  childish,  so  palpable  that  it  seemed  almost  indecent  to  look 
at  her;  impossible  to  look  without  betraying  some  amusement 
at  the  transparency  of  her  pretence  of  being  at  ease. 

"Some  boy,  I  suppose,"  he  thought;  then  realised  that 
he  had  no  liking  for  the  idea.  Laura  with  a  sweetheart! 
Laura,  who  had  sat  upon  his  knee,  put  her  arms  round  his 
neck,  bestowed  rare,  shy  kisses  upon  his  cheek,  his  sleek, 
shining  head — "Years  and  years,  hundreds  of  years  ago,"  as 
she  would  have  said,  with  indignant  disclaimer — the  best 
part  of  a  lifetime,  for  her,  but  for  him  such  a  very  short 
while  back. 

Ah,  well !  some  lucky  youngster  would  be  coming  in  for  all 
that  now,  he  supposed.  Then,  catching  her  reflection  in  the 
mirror,  he  saw  that  the  girl  was  looking  at  him  appealingly. 
while  Lady  Creichton  trickled  out  question  after  question 
between  her  "  Purl  three,  plain  three."  Merely  for  the  sake 
of  something  to  say,  poor  innocent;  something  as  far  as 
possible  removed  from  his  own  rather  alarming  conversation, 
and  yet  none  the  less  difficult  for  her  daughter.  For  there 
was  something  Laura  did  not  want  to  tell.  .  .  .  Ah,  yes;  that 
was  plain  enough. 

"  I  wonder — would  you  come  «ut  in  the  garden  when 
you've  finished  your  tea?  I'm  like  you,  Lolly;  I  love  to 
smell  things  after  the  rain." 

"Rather!  Now! — No,  I  don't  want  any  more  tea,  really!" 
There  was  the  intensest  relief  in  her  tone,  in  her  springy  step 
as  she  passed  through  the  hall  and  down  the  terrace  steps 
at  his  side.  "  Stratty  "  was  always  "safe  and  comfortable," 
she  thought;  there  was  something  in  his  quiet,  considered 
ways,  the  fact  that,  though  he  never  asked  questions,  he  gave 
anything  she  might  say  the  full  benefit  of  his  consideration, 
which  was  balm  to  her  eager  and  uncertain  youth.  There 
was  none  of  that,  "Oh,  it's  only  Laura!"  with  Gerald  Strat- 
ton;  and  a  man  of  note,  too — "in  the  Cabinet."  "My  friend 
in  the  Cabinet,"  how  grand  it  sounded!  She  liked  that; 
liked  the  man  himself  even  better,  would  have  liked  him  what- 
ever he  was;  all  the  more  for  some  appeal  to  her  pity;  for 
that  was  her  way. 

"Come  and  sniff  the  lilacs."  She  slipped  her  hand  into 
his  arm  as  they  moved  towards  the  long  grassy  path  with  the 
tall  limes  and  lilac  blossoms,  overweighted  with  moisture,  at 
either  side  of  them;  while  Stratton  himself  became  suddenly 


52  LAURA  CREICHTON 

and  definitely  aware  that,  whatever  there  might  be  between 
her  and  "the  boy,"  there  had  been  no  caress,  however  tenta- 
tive, scarcely  so  much  as  a  touching  of  hands,  or  he  would  not 
have  felt  this  friendly,  childish  pressure  upon  his  own  arm: 
Laura  was  too  fine  a  creature  for  that,  would  have  drawn 
herself  apart,  kept  apart,  for  a  while  at  least,  feeling  herself 
sanctified. 

He  was  right,  too.  There  was  a  bond  of  some  sort;  no 
mistake  about  that;  had  been,  indeed,  from  that  very  first 
day:  the  day  of  that  ridiculous  entanglement  with  Woolwich. 
For  of  course  that  was  what  had  happened:  they  had  met 
again,  and  there  was  a  very  definite  "  Someone "  established 
— a  boyish-looking  person,  too,  but  by  no  means  that  sort  of 
boy,  of  the  Philip  Henderson  type,  as  visualised  by  Gerald 
Stratton — and  all  with  scarcely  a  word  said,  Laura's  hands 
tightly  clasped  round  the  crook  of  her  umbrella,  torn  by  the 
wind,  dragging  her  forward  with  it. 

She  had  gone  for  her  walk,  though  it  had  already  begun  to 
rain,  driven  out  by  the  restlessness  which  had  possessed  her 
all  the  week.  She  was  certain  that  she  would  not  see  him; 
told  herself,  as  she  had  done  again  and  again,  that  she  did 
not  want  to  see  him;  was  nevertheless  bitterly  disappointed, 
horribly  ashamed  of  herself  for  this  very  disappointment, 
every  day  that  she  did  not  see  him;  thinking  that  the  very 
moment  she  went  in  at  her  own  front  door,  he  might  be  coming 
out  of  Blackheath  station  or  stepping  off  a  bus. 

Of  course  it  was  all  very  dreadful — even  more,  degrading — 
to  go  out,  racing  about  the  village  and  Heath,  winged  with  the 
inexplicable,  burning  desire  to  meet  a  man:  a  man  to  whom 
she  had  never  been  so  much  as  introduced. 

The  realisation  of  all  this  was  forever  at  the  back  of  her 
mind.  She  would  poke  it  away  out  of  sight,  and  fare  forth: 
and  then,  every  day  the  same  thing  happened.  Quite  sud- 
denly she  would  be  overcome  with  a  sense  of  horror  at  her  own 
enormity,  and  bolt  home  with  burning  cheeks,  telling  herself 
how  thankful  she  was,  oh,  how  thankful !  that  she  had  not  met 
Vortonitch;  keeping  on  telling  hejself  this  until  she  reached 
her  own  doorstep,  and  then  finding  herself  overcome  by  a 
perfectly  sickening  sense  of  flatness  and  loss,  an  inability 
to  imagine  what  she  could  possibly  do  with  the  rest  of  the 
day. 

This  very  afternoon  she  had  been  scurrying  back  to 
safety,  the  wind  and  rain  in  her  face,  her  navy-blue  waterproof 
flattened  out  in  front  and  billowing  at  the  back,  when  a  bus 


LAURA  CREICHTON  53 

had  come  dashing  by,  so  close  that  it  had  covered  her  with 
yellowish  mud. 

She  had  drawn  back,  cross  and  half  scared,  and  then 
scurried  on  again,  had  not  even  glanced  up.  And  yet  that  was 
the  bus;  for  that  was  the  way  things  happened. 

How  did  he  know  her  name?  She  thought  of  this  in  the 
garden  with  Gerald  Stratton — the  safe,  quiet  garden,  and 
Stratty,  as  they  called  him,  with  his  long,  smooth-shaven  face, 
rather  hollow  cheeks  and  long  chin,  his  almost  too  delicate 
skin,  his  air  of  perfect  breeding,  his  absolutely  right  clothes; 
bending  a  little  towards  her  in  that  kind  way  he  had,  and 
saying,  "Well,  Lolly,  and  how's  life  treating  you  nowa- 
days?" 

She  raised  both  hands  and  pressed  them  to  her  cheeks, 
still  burning.  There  were  shining  laurels  beneath  the  limes 
and  amid  the  lilacs:  how  lovely  it  would  have  been  to  press 
her  face  in  among  their  wet  leaves,  with  the  raindrops  lying 
so  clear  upon  them!  How  did  he  know  her  name?  She  had 
heard  quick  footsteps  behind  her  and  a  voice  calling: 

"Miss  Creichton!     Miss  Creichton!" 

Well,  come  to  that,  how  did  she  know  who  it  was  calling, 
without  turning  her  head;  not  only  knowing,  but  feeling  it 
through  and  through  her,  a  vibration,  something  throbbing, 
and  wild  like  a  bird? 

"  I  thought  I  was  never  going  to  see  you  again."  He  had 
said  that.  She  had  not  even  looked  at  him,  kept  her  face  and 
eyes  turned  the  other  way;  she  remembered  that  now,  walking 
with  Gerry,  not  looking  at  him  either,  because  it  seemed 
impossible  to  meet  anyone's  eye  quite  frankly,  as  she  used 
to  do. 

He — oh,  no,  not  Stratton! — had  asked  if  she  ever  came  up 
to  town,  and  she  had  answered  confusedly,  "  Sometimes — 
but  always  on  Fridays,  of  course,  because  of  my  singing 
lessons." 

He  had  questioned  her  as  to  the  hour,  whether  she  went 
up  alone  or  accompanied;  and  she  had  answered  like  a  child, 
a  shy,  docile  child.  She  was  angry  with  herself  now,  but  at 
the  time  there  had  seemed  no  other  way. 

One  of  her  aunts  was  an  authority  upon  the  subject  of 
men;  and  her  great  saying  was,  "Follow,  and  they  flee; 
flee,  and  they  follow."  How  mean  that  seemed;  how 
unkind!  But,  all  the  same,  there  was,  without  doubt,  some 
sort  of  a  happy  medium.  How  would  Miss  Farquharson  have 
behaved  under  such  circumstances?  It  seemed  that  she  was 


54  LAURA  CREICHTON 

forever  trying  to  model  herself  upon  this  superfine  lady,  and  it 
irritated  her,  for  she  did  not  really  admire  her,  wish  to  be 
like  her. 

Now  Mr.  Stratton  was,  in  his  turn,  asking  her  when  she 
would  be  coming  up  to  town  again;  talking  of  tea  on  the 
Terrace. 

"After  your  next  singing  lesson,  eh,  Lolly?" 

"Oh  no,  I  can't  —  not  .  .  ."  She  stumbled  badly, 
recovering  herself  every  bit  as  badly.  "  I  mean — I — it's 
Fridays,  you  know,  and  you  always  want  to  get  away  early 
on  Fridays,  don't  you?" 

In  her  distress  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his  face;  there  was 
nothing  she  could  tell  him,  and  yet  she  wanted  his  help,  for 
she  was  puzzled,  frightened,  with  that  sort  of  feeling  which 
comes  to  a  person  running  down  a  very  steep  hill,  exhilarated, 
excited,  and  yet  fearful  of  not  being  able  to  stop.  Her  full, 
soft  mouth,  with  those  delicately  tinted  lips,  was  folded  even 
more  wistfully  than  usual,  her  eyes  dilated  so  as  to  look 
almost  black. 

"  She  might  be  a  beauty,  would  be  a  beauty,  for  any  man 
she  loved,"  thought  Stratton:  and  then,  "If  the  fool  didn't 
put  out  the  light  with  too  much  blowing  upon  it."  For  she 
was  like  that:  there  was  beauty  in  her  delicate  colouring, 
the  springing  curves  of  her;  but  far  above  this  was  that 
luminous  beauty  of  personality,  that  self,  concerning  which 
she  was  so  mistrustful.  Stratton  remembered  having  seen 
alabaster  lamps  in  Italy,  fine  as  she  was,  with  the  light 
shining  through  them;  lovely  things,  but  .  .  .  Oh,  hang  it 
all!  so  easily  broken. 

"  Laura,  I  want  you  to  promise  me  something.  If  you're 
ever  in  any  sort  of  difficulty  that  you  don't  care  to  submit  to 
a  family  conclave,  come  and  tell  me  about  it;  let  me  help 
you." 

"  I  think  .  .  ."  The  girl  spoke  slowly,  hesitatingly,  the 
colour  flooding  her  cheeks.  "  I  think  that  I — that  I  would 
always  do  that;  that  you're — you're  the  only  person  I  could 
tell  things  to,  things  I  felt  very  much  .  .  ."  She  hesitated 
here,  so  long  that  Stratton  half  thought  she  had  come  to  the 
end  of  her  sentence ;  then  picked  it  up  again :  "  If  there  was 
ever  anything  to  tell." 

"Laura,  Laura!  Hullo,  Stratty!"  Marjorie  was  hailing 
them  from  the  terrace.  "  Oh,  Laura,  I've  had  such  a  spill — 
broken  my  own  bike  now.  The  roads  about  here — the  limit! 
Rotten  luck!" 


LAURA  CREICHTON  55 

"Oh,  rotten  luck!"  Laura  called  back,  in  her  old  way  of 
adapting  herself  to  her  younger,  more  noisily  dominant  sister, 
so  afraid  of  being  thought  old-fashioned,  proper;  and  then, 
swinging  back,  taking  a  firm  stand  upon  an  attitude  which 
Stratton  realised  as  new,  secretly  applauding,  "Rotten  luck 
you  call  it!  I  call  it  beastly  careless,  to  be  able  to  touch 
nothing,  do  nothing,  without  a  breakage  of  some  sort  or 
another." 

Mar j one  shrugged  her  shoulders;  but  they  were  drawing 
nearer  to  each  other,  and  Gerald  Stratton  realised  that,  shrug 
as  she  might,  the  other  girl  was  not  altogether  surprised  at 
such  a  tone. 

So  this  was  not  the  beginning  of  Laura's  self-assertion. 
Someone  was  backing  her,  bolstering  her  up;  or  was  it  that 
she  had,  by  chancing  upon  someone  even  more  timid  than 
herself,  found  the  self-reliance  which  she  had  always  lacked? 

The  painstaking,  far-seeing,  intelligence  of  the  Cabinet 
Minister,  detaching  itself  from  the  actual  presence  of  this  girl 
of  scarcely  eighteen,  drew  back  and  circled  slowly  round, 
balancing  all  he  knew  of  her,  her  character  and  environment, 
against  all  he  knew  of  the  world:  taking  a  long  and  careful 
survey,  as  he  might  have  done  of  any  international  compli- 
cation. 

"It's  not  a  boy!"  That  thought  came  to  him  with  a 
flash  of  supreme  insight.  "She  wouldn't  be  so  set  up,  so 
suddenly  secure  from  that  chit's  shafts,  under  the  inspiration 
of  a  mere  boy." 

"  I  don't  know  what's  come  to  Lolly,"  Marjorie  was 
complaining.  "  She  snaps  one's  head  off  one  nowadays ! " 

"Oh,  well,  my  dear  Marjorie,  I  must  say  I  should  imagine 
that  yours  is  pretty  secure." 

There  was  a  gentle  malice  in  his  voice.  "  Stratton  can  be 
damned  nasty  when  he  likes  " ;  that's  what  they  said  of  him, 
and  Marjorie  Creichton  exasperated  him  to  a  point  where  he 
found  it  difficult  to  be  anything  else;  while  that  faculty  for 
reading  character,  seeing  all  round  everything,  gave  him  an 
almost  uncanny  insight,  which  he  was  quite  human  enough  to 
use,  into  the  weaknesses  of  his  fellow-creatures;  and  Marjorie's 
inclination  to  stumpiness,  her  short,  thick  neck,  was  a  sore 
point  with  her,  as  he  well  knew. 

She  put  up  her  hand  now,  touched  herself  under  her  chin: 

"  Oh,  well,  anyhow,  it's  screwed  on  the  right  way,"  she 
said,  with  a  toss  of  her  head. 


CHAPTER  VI 

IT  was  very  soon  after  this,  a  mere  matter  of  hours,  that 
Gerald  Stratton  might  have  found  more  food  for  thought  in 
watching  Carl  Grobo  instruct  a  tyro  in  the  whole  art  and 
pastime  of  dominoes,  during  that  brief  interval  when  the  staff 
of  Le  Cygne  d'Or  draws  breath  betwixt  late  dinners  and  early 
suppers. 

From  the  very  beginning,  however,  it  had  seemed  that 
Grobo's  heart  and  soul  were  bent  upon  the  task  in  hand,  while 
his  pupil  was  allowing  his  mind  to  be  diverted  by  something 
which  hurt  and  rankled,  and  which  he  was  still  unable  to  let 
go;  something  far  removed  from  the  game  of  dominoes,  the 
restaurant,  the  processes  of  digestion. 

This  indifferent  tyro  was  one  of  those  men  who  might  have 
been  described  as  "  clever-looking,"  were  it  not  that  the  long, 
slightly  convex  upper  lip  betrayed — for  any  student  of 
character — a  fatal  obstinacy,  mingled  with  a  still  more  fatal 
and  blind  conceit;  a  self-made  man,  the  foreman  of  one  of 
the  largest  departments  of  an  immense  establishment  for 
turning  out  the  ready-made  clothing  of  uniformed  Government 
officials — endeavouring  by  a  conformity  of  garment  to  induce 
an  equal  conformity  of  mind — which  abuts  upon  the  river  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  Pimlico.  There  was  the  wheel  of  the 
world,  so  far  as  Grobo's  acquaintance  was  concerned:  the 
outer  ring  of  parliament,  Pimlico,  with  the  Pimlico  Works, 
and  then,  as  the  inmost  heart,  the  driving-power  of  it  all — 
himself,  John  Harbin. 

"You  can  do  nothing  with  a  chap  like  that,"  was  Paul 
Vortonitch's  verdict  upon  the  fellow:  "Ignorant;  blinded  by 
the  little  he  does  know,  stuck  like  a  mote  in  his  eye;  obstinate 
as  a  pig!" 

"  No,  no,  not  like  a  pig — no  so  comfortable  sausage  from 
that  gentleman  there,  my  friend!  Like  a  runaway  traction 
engine,  rather,"  asserted  Grobo  with  some  humour.  "Let 
us  but  set  'im  upon  a  little  'ill,  apply  a  lee-e-tle — oh,  but  ever 
so  lee-e-tle  pressure — an'  then — phut! — there  will  be  no 
stopping  'im.  A  fanatic,  my  beloved  Paul,  above  all  a 

56 


LAURA  CREICHTON  57 

fanatic  who  is  entirely  fanatical  concerning  himself,  can  see 
not  one  inch  further  than  the  tip  of  'is  own  nose,"  he  went  on, 
with  one  finger  to  that  putty-like  protuberance  which 
decorated  the  centre  of  his  own  countenance — trivial,  comic 
as  a  portrait  by  Phiz.  "  What  more  can  we  want?  Drop 
any  sort  of  suggestion  which  appeals  to  'is  egotism,  that  sense 
of  grievance  which  is  the  curse  of  egotism,  and  there  you  are 
— a  blade  with  but  one  sharp  edge,  entirely  dependent  upon 
the  handling,  ready  to  your  use." 

If  this  was  what  he  was  after,  it  is  certain  that  Grobo  could 
scarcely  have  done  better;  for  whether  he  had  worked  up  the 
factory  official  to  feel  as  he  intended  him  to  feel,  or  whether 
his  natural  egotism  bourgeoned  beneath  the  forcing  influence 
of  the  little  man's  benignity,  it  is  certain  that — passing  in  the 
factory  as  a  sullenish  fellow,  silent,  apart  from  his  constant 
fault-finding — he  had  grown  during  his  acquaintanceship 
with  Grobo,  the  hours  passed  in  Le  Cygne  d'Or,  so  voluble  and 
blustering  that,  on  this  particular  evening,  Madame  laid  the 
patron's  under-pants,  which  she  was  busy  darning,  down  upon 
her  knees — spread  wide  apart — staring,  wondering  what  her 
dear  friend  Grobo  might  be  up  to;  engrossed,  moreover,  with 
her  never-ceasing  sense  of  wonder  as  to  the  whys  and  where- 
fores of  these  amazing  English,  who  remained  unmellowed, 
unrelated,  uncheered  by  the  choicest  wine,  the  richest  food; 
adamant  to  piquant  sauces,  to  garlic. 

"If  it  hadn't  happened  before,  I  wouldn't  have  taken  so 
much  notice  of  it — but  twice  over.  That  shows  a  set  on  a 
man,  if  there  ever  was  one,"  shouted  Harbin.  "Their  loss, 
too,  for  they'll  never  get  another  man  to  stand  by  'em  as  I've 
done;  an'  they  know  it — or  ought  to.  I'm  not  one  to  praise 
myself,  no  one  can  say  as  I  am,"  he  bored  on  and  on,  "  but  if  I 
left,  went  into  any  private  business,  as  I  would  do  if  I  studied 
myself  as  I  ought  to  do,  they'd  find  out  the  difference,  and  in 
double-quick  time,  too.  Why,  there's  scarce  a  man  a  week  in 
my  department — and  mind  you,  they  run  into  hundreds — as 
is  ever  late.  I  won't  stand  slackness,  and  they  know  that. 
No  need  to  say  anything,  where  I  am;  it's  in  the  air,  so  to 
speak.  'No  slackers' — that's  me,  me — John  Harbin  at  your 
service.  As  for  their  Unions — 'Damn  the  Unions!'  says  I; 
there  ain't  no  other  Union  where  the  Government  is  concerned. 
The  Government's  It — It,  let  me  tell  you  that,  Mister." 

He  spoke  as  he  felt:  he,  himself,  the  factory,  the  Govern- 
ment— much  as  he  abused  it — these  it  were  that  made  the 
world.  Here  indeed  was  the  very  man  for  Grobo. 


58  LAURA  CREICHTON 

Harbin  thumped  his  fist  upon  the  table  with  such  violence 
that  the  carefully  arranged  dominoes  jumped  from  their 
places ;  upon  which  the  other  man  put  out  one  plump  hand  and 
re-arranged  them  with  an  apologetic  smile,  as  though  to  say: 

"One  can't  expect  a  genius,  a  leader  like  you,  to  be 
bothered  over  little  games  such  as  those  that  beguile  my  futile 
foreign  mind." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Harbin  had  completely  forgotten  the 
dominoes;  was  engaged  upon  the  far  more  absorbing  sport  of 
hobby-horsemanship . 

"What  I  say  is  this,"  he  went  on  loudly,  dictatorially: 
"The  Government's  like  that  there  song  as  goes  something 
like  this:  'I  am  the  Cook  and  the  Captain  bold  and  the  Mate 
o'  the  Nancy  Brig' — self-contained — that's  the  Government. 
A  close  Union,  if  ever  there  was  one;  no  changing  it,  neither. 
Men  are  men  afore  they're  in  it;  arter  that  they're  part  o' 
something  bigger  an'  stupider  nor  themselves.  Talk  o'  turning 
out  the  Government!  Turn  it  out,  says  I,  an'  be  damned! 
For  what  will  you  get?  Tell  me  that.  Not  other  men,  or 
other  ideas — just  another  Government,  the  dead-spit  o'  the 
first — the  other  side  o'  the  same  coat,  nothing  more  nor  less. 
A  Conservative  Government,  a  Liberal  Government,  a  Labour 
Government — don't  you  go  kidding  yourselves  that  it  means 
a  collection  o'  Conservatives,  conserving,  or  Liberals  being 
liberal,  or  Labour  men,  labouring.  Not  a  bit  o'  it:  it's  just  a 
Government;  that's  what  it  is.  Every  man's  more  or  less 
like  another  when  he's  sea-sick,  and  it's  that  way  with  them 
that  are  part  o'  the  Government:  down  at  a  dead  level,  not 
a  pin  to  choose  'atween  anyone  o'  them;  let  me  tell  you 
that,  Moo-choo.  An'  as  for  any  judgment,  as  for  any  fair- 
ness! Look  here,  now:  I've  been  in  Government  employ 
ever  since  I  was  a  kid  o'  thirteen,  but  I  ain't  not  supposed 
to  know  anything.  An'  why?  Because  I'm  paid  by  the 
week,  an'  not  by  the  year:  work  for  my  screw:  there  you 
have  it!" 

Harbin  gave  a  loud  laugh,  being  that  sort  of  man  who 
laughs  in  derision,  bitterness,  never  in  wholesome  mirth.  A 
hard  worker,  a  good  citizen — everything  that  Grobo  was  not 
— and  yet,  if  he  had  children,  which  he  had  not,  it  would  still 
be  impossible  to  imagine  him  on  all  fours,  playing  bears  with 
them,  as  Grobo  did  with  his  tribe. 

"Government  jobs!  Slavery,  that's  what  they  are!  No 
thanks,  no  hope,  no  leisure,  no  assured  position;  wearing  a 
man  out,  throwing  him  aside,  trampling  on  him;  putting 


LAURA  CREICHTON  59 

other  chaps  as  haven't  half,  no,  nor  one-quarter,  o'  the  ex- 
perience as  he  has  himself  over  his  head,  damn  'em!" 

There  it  was:  the  root  of  the  matter — another  chap  pro- 
moted over  his  head. 

"A  shame,  that!  To  think  of  it!"  cried  Grobo,  who  had 
heard  it  all  before.  "An'  one  like  you! — Like  you,  as  any 
other  country  would  be  so  proud  to  honour." 

He  was  so  clearly  amazed,  horrified,  that  Harbin's  griev- 
ance was  intensified.  So  that  was  the  way  a  man  of  another 
nation  looked  at  such  things,  was  it? 

"A  shame."  Yes,  a  gory  shame — come  to  think  of  it, 
that  was  what  it  was.  His  indignation  throbbed  to  bursting- 
point.  In  the  beginning  he  had  taken  his  own  place  very 
much  for  granted.  The  position  he  now  regarded  as  a  usurpa- 
tion touched  him  but  little.  There  had  always  been  someone 
over  him,  a  University  man,  a  man  of  totally  different 
class.  It  was  only  when  this  rosy  little  fellow,  clever  enough 
in  his  own  way,  even  though  he  were  a  foreigner,  had  de- 
clared him  ill-used,  that  he  realised  it.  Even  then  he  had  not, 
in  the  beginning,  liked  to  hear  anyone  say  such  a  thing  of 
him:  he,  John  Harbin,  so  well  able  to  take  care  of  himself, 
to  be  "  put  upon  " ! 

But  there  it  was:  a  shame,  a  damned  shame!  He  had  been 
too  easy,  too  unselfish;  that  was  what  was  wrong. 

It  was  like  a  first  sip  of  gin-and-bitters,  distasteful.  But  as 
he  turned  it  round  and  round  upon  his  palate,  taking  another 
and  yet  another  sip,  he  had,  with  almost  inconceivable 
rapidity,  developed  into  a  half-secret,  altogether  ardent  tippler 
of  that  most  pernicious  brew  —  self-pity.  It  corroded  his  very 
being,  came  between  him  and  his  meals,  his  sleep,  his  staid 
pleasures,  his  pride  in  his  work;  and  yet,  like  all  tipplers,  he 
could  not  have  done  without  it.  Take  his  grievance  from 
him,  and  he  would  have  made  a  grievance  of  the  fact  of  being 
without  a  grievance. 

"  They've  gone  a  bit  too  far  this  time,  though,  an'  if  I  don't 
have  that  there  chap  as  I'm  supposed  to  take  my  orders  from 
out  o'  that,  as  a  matter  o'  protest  if  nothing  more,  my  name's 
not  what  it  is.  Not  that  he'll  need  my  help  to  get  him  into 
trouble;  he'll  get  into  trouble  enough  on  his  own,  in  double- 
quick  time,  too;  anyone  can  see  that  with  half  an  eye. 
Talk  of  ignorance,  talk  of  interfering!  God!  What  do  you 
think  he's  gone  an'  done  now?  Telling  the  electrician  as  he 
weren't  getting  the  power  out  o'  the  plant  as  he  ought  to; 
fiddling  here,  fiddling  there,  an'  got  every  wire  in  the  pressing- 


60  LAURA  CREICHTON 

room  fused;  had  'em  all  at  a  standstill  for  the  best  part  of 
the  day.    That'll  show  you!" 

"'Ow  is  that? — what  you  say — fused?" 

"  Well,  it's  impossible  to  explain  to  anyone  that  is  ignorant 
of  such  things,  as  you  foreigners  are  bound  to  be — no  offence 
meant,  Moo-choo,  for  my  calling  you  an  Englishman  wouldn't 
make  you  one,  now,  would  it? — but  all  our  place  is  run  by 
electricity,  and  once  an  amateur  gets  messing  round  a  thing 
o'  that  sort,  there's  sure  to  be  trouble.  Of  course,  it's  got 
nothing  to  do  with  me;  but  if  it  had,  if  I  was  in  that  chap's 
place,  I'd  just  say  to  the  head  electrician,  'Look  'ere,  Mr. 
Fry,  that  ain't  right,  that  ain't  as  it  should  be,'  and  leave  it 
to  him.  But  that's  one  thing  as  a  fellow  like  that  won't  do. 
'  Mr.  Know-All ' — that's  what  the  men  call  him.  There'll  be 
a  fire,  or  something  o'  that  sort,  and  perhaps  that'll  teach  him ! 
I  only  tell  you  this,  mark  you,  Mister,  to  show  the  sort  o' 
chaps  as  a  man  like  me  gets  put  over  his  head  when  he's  in 
Government  employ — notorious,  that's  what  it  is!"  For  a 
moment  he  paused,  then  bored  on,  and  on,  and  on — for  all  the 
world  like  a  plump  pigeon — Grobo  patiently  picking  his  grains 
of  wheat  from  out  all  this  measure  of  chaff.  "  If  they'd  set  a 
man  up  over  me  as  had  learnt  his  trade  through  an'  through, 
as  I've  done,  from  the  running  errands  to  the  ironing,  the 
cutting,  the  book-keeping,  I'd  not  complain,  for  I'm  not  the 
complaining  sort:  no  one  can  say  I  am.  But  a  chap  like 
that,  as  I  could  put  in  my  waistcoat  pocket;  a  chap  as  has 
been  a  schoolmaster — a  schoolmaster,  mind  you!  A  bit  too 
thick,  eh?  Just  a  bit  too  thick!" 

"  Look  'ere  now,  Monsieur."  Grobo  leant  forward,  wag- 
ging a  plump  finger.  "  The  Government  is  wrong.  The  man 
they  'ave  put  over  you  is  no  good — doubtless,  as  you  say,  'e 
am  no  damn  good.  But  it  am  you,  you,  Monsieur  'Arbin,  'oo 
am  the  fool!" 

"What  the  devil !"   Harbin  glanced  up  angrily.   Here 

was  no  pouring  in  of  oil  and  wine  such  as  he  had  grown  used 
to,  expected. 

"Yes,  that  am  it.     A  damn  fool;  any  man  am  that ' 

"Look  here,  now!  No  calling  of  names,  Moo-choo!" 
The  voice,  the  bright-eyed  and  flushed  face,  were  truculent, 
showing  a  man  totally  unable  to  endure  criticism;  but  Grobo's 
mild  glance  fixed  him  steadily. 

"Any  man  am  a  fool  as  suffers  in  silence  an  injustice  such 
as  you  suffer,  Monsieur.  It  is  folly;  an',  'arken  you  'ere,  it  is 
worse  " — his  voice  gathered  a  sudden  authority,  depth — "  it  ia 


LAURA  CREICHTON  61 

an  ill  deed  to  himself  an'  to  the  public  which  is  paying  its 
good  money,  the  life-blood  of  the  country,  in  taxes  for  what  is 
not  the  best.  I  say  you  are  a  fool!  An'  yet,  Monsieur,  you 
are,  in  your  so  great  patience,  your  so  wonderful  strength,  an 
'ero  also — like  the  knights  of  old — an  'ero." 

"I  say,  look  here — enough  o'  that."  Harbin  laughed, 
half  mollified,  with  an  odd  mixture  of  shame  and  pride; 
looking  round  to  see  if  Madame  had  heard  what  was  said. 
"A  fool  and  a  hero!  What  are  you  after?" 

"An  'ero — Monsieur,  we  will  put  that  first.  I  say  it  an' 
I  keep  to  it,  for,  see  you,  it  is  this  way.  A  man  may  die  for 
'is  country — well  an'  good.  I  take  off  my  'at  to  the  corpse  of 
such  a  man.  But,  for  all  that,  a  man  as  'ave  lived  for  'is 
country,  as  you,  Monsieur,  'ave  lived  for  yours,  'e  it  is  'oo 
is  far  more  finer,  more  enduring,  more  like  to  zee  greatest,  zee 
most  symbolic  work  of  art  in  this  great  capital  of  a  mighty 
nation — the  lions  in  Trafalgar  Square,  Monsieur." 

"Oh,  well,  I  suppose  it's  no  good  grumbling;  we're  not 
the  sort  to  grumble,  we  English,"  responded  the  other  man, 
with  that  air  of  sulkiness  in  which  our  countrymen  veil  their 
appreciation  of  a  compliment;  drawing  towards  him  the 
little  glass  which  Madame  herself — only  a  moment  earlier, 
and  in  obedience  to  a  gesture  from  Grobo — had  refilled: 
emptying  it  at  one  breath,  blinking  a  little,  with  the  colour 
called  up  by  Grobo's  words  fixed  in  a  hard  spot  upon  either 
cheek. 

He  felt  strangely  elated  and  confused;  quarrelsome  and 
yet  pleased  with  himself.  It  was  not  only  those  odd  little 
glasses  of  brandy;  he  did  not  know  what  it  was,  but  .  .  . 
Oh,  well,  hang  it  all!  a  fellow  was  bound  to  assert  himself, 
make  others  feel  his  power,  some  time  or  other. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  the  oddness  of  everything  which 
had  gone  to  his  head:  new  sensations,  new  surroundings,  new 
ideas  about  everything:  above  all,  new  ideas  about  himself. 

Grobo's  sympathy — the  sympathy  of  a  man  whom  here, 
in  this  very  place,  he  had  heard  speaking  both  French  and 
Italian — was  dear  to  him.  The  little  fat,  fair  foreigner  was 
so  different  from  any  man  he  had  ever  known  that  it  was 
almost  like  one's  first  love  encounter ;  and  yet,  absorbing  it 
as  he  did,  through  every  pore  of  him,  he  still — in  his  entirely 
insular  and  self-conscious  soul — felt  himself  a  trifle  stripped 
by  such  a  show  of  feeling.  "  No  good's  ever  done  by  talking ; 
that's  what  I  say,"  he  repeated. 

"That's  where  you  are  wrong,  Monsieur.     That's  why  I 


62  LAURA  CREICHTON 

dared  to  say,  an'  say  it  again — 'You  are  a  fool — a  damn 
fool!'  In  the  same  manner  as  all  your  'ole  nation  am  a 
nation  of  damn  fools.  Wonderful?  Oh  yes,  most  wonderful, 
though  your  wonderfulness  is  not  known  as  it  ought  to  be 
known,  an'  for  this  reason,  Monsieur,  that  you  say  nothing — 
nothing;  no  damn  thing  whatever!  With  a  magnificent 
phlegm,  a  great  courage,  with  the  solidity,  the  persistence  of 
the  Pyramids — mais  oui,  I  grant  you  that — you  keep  on  saying 
nothings.  An'  it  is  there,  Monsieur,  that  you  are  wrong.  To 
be  silent  for  a  little,  with  an  air,  comme  ga!"  Grobo  leant  his 
head  upon  his  hand,  frowned  portentously.  "All  very  well! 
But  to  keep  on  being  silent!  What  folly,  what  stupidity! 
For,  mark  you  'ere,  Monsieur  'Arbin,  other  peoples  they  begin 
by  being  frightened  of  the  man  who  says  nothing — wondering 
what  'e  'as  in  'is  mind.  But  in  the  end,  what  'appens?  What 
'appens?  This:  they  forget  'im.  But  yes.  Completely  they 
forget  'im.  That  is  what  you  call  the  nature  of  the  beast 
'uman.  It  is  the  same,  Monsieur,  with  you  an'  this  Govern- 
ment for  'om  you  'ave  work  so  'ard  and  'oo  am  treat  you  so 
bad.  They  forget  you,  because  that  you  say  nothings.  They 
put  upon  you,  they  tread  you  under  their  foots,  as  though 
you  yourself  was  nothings  whatever.  You — you,  an  English 
gentleman,  a  patriot,  to  'om  I,  Carl  Grobo,  drink  the  'ealth 
with  the  profoundest,  the  deepest  respect.  Madame 

Once  more  Madame  filled  their  glasses,  the  thimble  still 
on  her  finger;  while  Grobo,  who  had  risen  to  his  feet, 
bowed,  touched  his  lips  to  his;  and  the  other  man — 
nodding  awkwardly,  half-shamefacedly — drank  his  to  the 
last  drop. 

"It's  the  bloody  unfairness  o'  things  as  gets  me  on  the 
raw,"  he  muttered.  "Setting  a  greenhorn  like  that  over 
chaps  as  knows  their  jobs  inside  out."  He  spoke  with  a 
common  intonation,  the  veneer  of  secondary  schools  and 
evening  classes,  scratched  through  with  the  golden  cognac  of 
Le  Cygne  d'Or. 

"Monsieur,  listen  'ere."  Grobo  bent  forward  and  touched 
him  upon  the  sleeve.  "You  'ave  kept  on  with  that  saying 
nothings  until  the  injustice  prey  upon  your  mind.  If  you  'ad 
the  lightness  of  mind  and  tongue:  the — what  is  it  you  call 
it? — the — the  gab  o'  the  Latin  races,  it  would  not  be  so  bad 
for  you,  not  one  'alf  so  bad.  Listen  'ere  now:  this  is  what  I 
would  do  to  this  Mr.  Know-Ail,  if  I  was  you — make  'im  look 
silly.  There  you  'ave  it!  Play  'im  a  trick:  a  trick  o'  some 
sort  as  will  make  all  the  peoples  in  your  factory  laugh  at  'im, 


LAURA  CREICHTON  63 

as  English  peoples  laugh  when  a  man's  'at  is  blown  away  by 
the  wind,  an'  'e  run  after  it.  Something  of  the  sort  as  they 
'ave  the  'abit  o'  laughing  at." 

Grobo  leant  across  the  table  towards  the  other  man,  his 
eyes  twinkling  like  those  of  a  malicious  child. 

"  There  is  one  thing  as  peoples  of  'is  sort,  peoples  as  think 
they  know  everything,  cannot  bear,  an'  that  is  to  be  laughed 
at  by  other  peoples.  Eh,  what?  Is  it  not  so?" 

He  smiled  delightfully;  while  the  other  nodded,  with  a 
bleak  and  rather  suspicious  stare.  Oh,  well,  come  to  that,  was 
there  anyone  that  did  like  being  laughed  at? 

Madame,  rising,  putting  by  her  work,  beckoning  the  waiter 
to  attend  to  some  new-comers,  thought  them  an  odd  couple. 
Grobo  so  friendly  and  beaming,  with  his  little  fat  legs  tucked 
up  under  his  chair;  and  this  new  client,  leaning  back,  his 
legs  stretched  out,  his  hands  in  his  hip-pockets,  his  hat — his 
hat,  there  in  Le  Cygne  d'Or! — at  the  back  of  his  head. 

"A  trick,  a  little  trick,"  repeated  Grobo;  "the  littler,  the 
more  childish  it  is,  the  more  silly  will  'e  look." 

"What  the  devil  do  you  mean?" 

"A  little  trick  like  one  boy  play  upon  another  when  he 
poke  'is  nose  where  'e  am  not  wanted.  You  say  'e — what  is 
it? — blow  up  the  electrics " 

"Not  blow  up  —  fuse,"  corrected  Harbin,  intolerably 
superior. 

"'E  not  know  the  difference  'imself?" 

"Hell,  no;  not  him!" 

"Well,  look  'ere,  now.  I  'ave  a  cousin  as  makes  fireworks 
for  your  Fifth  of  November.  A  good  trick  that.  The  Bang 
— a  trick  to  make  all  the  peoples  jump — a  trick  they  all  knows 
is  for  laughing.  I  get  a  squib  from  my  cousin  Joseph  as  will 
make  a  big  noise  fit  to  blow  the  tiles  off  'is  'ead.  All  your 
friend  the  electric  man  'ave  to  do  is  to  fasten  'im  up  where  'e 
will  go  off,  bang,  when  that  Monsieur  Know-All  come  pokin' 
in  'is  nose  where  it  am  not  wanted  to  be — and,  la!" 

Once  again  Harbin  laughed,  a  laugh  so  ugly  that  a  few 
early  suppers  who  had  just  drifted  in  turned  and  stared;  a 
couple  of  women  with  their  bare  shoulders  half  out  of  their 
cloaks,  smiling  open  encouragement,  realising  the  recklessness 
of  that  laugh. 

"That's  a  good  idea! — teach  him  to  mind  his  own  busi- 
ness, not  to  go  interfering,  butting  in.  Show  the  bosses  that 
a  chap  like  that,  as  the  hands  make  a  game  of,  ain't  the  sort 
to  put  in  authority  over  a  lot  like  ours.  Now,  you  look  'ere, 


64  LAURA  CREICHTON 

Moo-choo,  you  get  that  there  squib  from  your  cousin,  an'— 
well  .  .  ." 

He  leant  across  the  table  towards  the  other  man,  and  his 
voice  dropped.  "A  damned  good  trick — hurt  nobody.  Get 
a  bit  of  my  own  back" — that  was  what  he  thought. 
"  Phut— e — e — e — euh — La — la — la — Bang ! " 
Grobo  gave  a  wriggle  of  excitement,  one  inimitable  gesture, 
and  subsided  in  his  chair,  his  back  rounded  like  a  cat  which 
arches  itself  to  a  caressing  hand;  while,  as  Harbin — always 
boring — bored  on  and  on,  arguing  against  his  own  conscience, 
sense  of  dignity,  it  would  have  scarcely  seemed  surprising  if, 
instead  of  low-voiced  comments  of  pleasure  and  admiration, 
he  had  emitted  a  purr. 


CHAPTER  VII 

So  cat-like  was  Grobo's  attitude,  his  whole  air,  indeed,  that 
it  seemed  strange  he  should  have  lacked  the  cat-like  cerebral 
sensitiveness,  which  is  so  quickly  aware  of  anything  in  the 
least  antagonistic  at  the  back  of  it.  For  it  was  not  until  he 
and  his  companion  pushed  back  their  chairs  and  turned  aside 
for  their  coats  that  he  realised  the  presence  of  a  fat,  pale-faced 
man,  who  had  come  in  half  an  hour  earlier,  and  was  sitting  in 
a  corner  almost  directly  behind  him. 

As  he  paid  for  his  own  dinner  and  their  joint  drinks. 
Grobo's  mind  raced  to  and  fro.  His  smooth,  pink  face  was 
still  bland  and  imperturbable,  but  at  the  back  of  it  was  some- 
thing that  ran  like  a  mouse  in  and  out  of  its  hole. 

As  he  wished  Madame,  re-established  at  the  cash-desk, 
good-night,  Harbin,  who  had  no  manners,  walked  out  alone 
into  the  narrow  passage  entrance. 

"Will  he  speak  to  me?  Shall  I  speak  to  him?"  Of  a 
sudden,  Grobo's  mind  ceased  to  move,  hung  stationary,  as 
though  poised  in  the  exact  centre  of  a  fine  balance. 

"Hullo,  look  here,  I've  got  to  go  on!"  Harbin  poked  his 
head  in  at  the  door.  "  You'll  see  to  that — what  we  were 
speaking  of — won't  you?" 

"Wait — I'm  coming.  No,  no;  go  on."  Grobo  turned 
at  the  door.  He  had  not  given  the  fat  man  so  much  as  a 
second  glance,  and  yet  was  intensely,  painfully  conscious  of 
him;  realised  the  other's  intense  consciousness  of  himself. 
They  were  equal  in  that,  at  least,  though  on  the  opposing  side 
there  was  an  even  stronger  pull  of  personality  and  power:  a 
power  which  was  fully  as  unscrupulous  in  pursuit  of  what  it 
wanted,  and  yet  so  much  more  legitimate  and  better  backed 
than  Grobo's  own,  so  altogether  surer,  so  Moloch-like  in  its 
sureness,  that  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  pass  by  without  a 
word. 

The  other  man  would  not  speak  first — he  knew  that: 
meant  him  to,  was  sure  that  he  would,  first.  It  was  hate- 
ful to  humour  him,  giving  in  to  his  wordless,  glanceless 
insistence;  and  yet  how  much  more  hateful  to  allow  him 

65 


66  LAURA  CREICHTON 

to  imagine  for  one  single  moment  that  he,  Carl  Grobo,  was 
afraid  of  him.  For,  after  all,  he  was  not,  individually,  in  the 
very  least  afraid,  though  hating,  dreading,  and  almost  in- 
tolerably exasperated  by,  all  that  this  monument  of  flabby, 
pale-tinted  flesh  stood  for:  the  sworn  enemy,  by  bell  and 
book,  of  all  liberty,  of  all  freedom  of  speech  and  thought, 
as  Grobo  himself  saw  it;  the  freedom  to  snatch  by  violence 
what  had  often  enough,  indisputably,  been,  in  the  beginning, 
gained  by  violence:  the  scratching-post  of  tyrants.  For  though 
he  himself,  Carl  Grobo,  might,  and  indeed  did,  run  like  water 
out  of  those  immense,  stiff,  square-tipped  hands,  this  man  was 
a  menace  to  the  cause  for  which  he  worked  and  lived. 

Anyhow,  the  conviction  was  clear  and  sudden,  it  would  be 
beet,  decidedly  best,  to  speak  to  him. 

Once  having  decided  upon  this,  Grobo  turned,  with  no 
pretence  of  but  just  having  seen  the  fellow;  moved  across  to 
his  table  and  sat  down  opposite  to  him. 

"Well?     Come  now,  what  is  it?" 

As  the  other  raised  his  curiously  flat  head,  in  which  the 
upper  part  seemed  so  entirely  disproportionate  to  the  im- 
mense neck,  with  the  folds  of  yellowish  fat  like  an  over- 
voluminous  and  badly-tied  neckerchief,  Grobo  was  reminded, 
as  he  had  so  often  been  before,  of  a  tortoise  peering  up  out 
of  its  shell. 

"  A-ah!  you,  Grobo?    I  hope  Madame  Grobo  is  well." 

"  Quite  well,  thank  you." 

"And  your  charming  children?" 

"Yes."     For   once  the  little   man   seemed   indisposed   to 
enlarge  upon  his  family  affairs. 

The  other  laid  his  hand  flat,  palm  downwards,  on  the  table 
and  beat  upon  it  with  the  middle  finger,  without  stirring  the 
others,  meditating. 

"Grobo,  you  would  do  well — the  worst  of  these  foreign 
restaurants  is  that  they  put  too  much  salt  in  the  food:  these 
potatoes,  now.  I  shall  be  burnt  out  with  thirst — to  consider 
your  family,  and  choose  your  friends  more  carefully." 

"Oh,  that  fellow?  A  business  debt,  not  at  all  the  sort  of 
man  you  would  call  a  friend.  No,  no."  Grobo  shrugged  his 
shoulders.  "  'E  'as  served  'is  end.  I  am  finished  with  'im." 

Without  in  the  least  deceiving  himself  as  to  his  ability  to 
deceive  the  other,  he  was  yet  anxious  to  know  how  often 
Harbin  and  he  had  been  observed  together.  As  to  the  pallid 
man,  he  was  perfectly  frank;  these  two — such  old  opponents 
that  they  had  almost  become  friends — never  even  thought  of 


LAURA  CREICHTON     -  67 

hoodwinking  one  another:  it  would  have  been  no  good  if  they 
had;  they  respected  each  other  sufficiently  to  realise  this. 
The  game  was  open ;  the  pieces  all  on  the  board,  Grobo's  more 
awkwardly  placed  than  the  other's,  but  that  was  an  accident 
of  fate  alone. 

It  is  strange  how  easily  one  may  get  oneself  arrested  on 
mere  suspicion ;  and  yet,  in  practice,  how  difficult  it  may  prove 
to  actually  arrest  anyone  on  anything  apart  from  the  most 
clearly  defined  evidence.  There  would  seem  to  have  been  an 
almost  overwhelming  web  of  suspicion  spun  around  Carl 
Grobo,  and  yet  not  one  which  was  strong  enough  to  bind  the 
fellow.  It  was  certain  that  his  real  name  was  nothing  like 
so  artless  and  obscure  as  "  Grobo,"  and  yet  his  papers  were  in 
perfect  order;  no  one  with  whom  he  came  in  daily  contact 
had  a  word  to  say  against  him.  In  England,  at  least,  nothing 
could  be  proved  against  him.  Things  happened  which,  it  waa 
well  known,  had  their  source  in  him,  which  smelt  of  his  brain, 
so  to  speak,  but  that  was  all  that  could  be  said.  He  might 
perhaps — though  it  would  have  been  difficult  in  the  face  of 
his  perfectly  sober  and  well  regulated  life — have  been  turned 
out  of  the  country  as  an  undesirable  alien;  but  he  would 
have  been,  on  the  whole,  more  dangerous  elsewhere. 

That  assassination  in  Bucharest,  for  instance,  so  deeply 
significant  to  Stratton  and  his  fellows — had  Carl  Grobo  been 
at  that  time  resident  in  Roumania  it  might  have  been  our  own 
English  heir-apparent;  for  it  had  been  observed  that  it  was 
in  places  where  Grobo  was  not,  that  things  of  this  sort  were 
most  likely  to  occur,  his  bolts  being  long-drawn. 

And,  after  all,  little  fat,  fresh-faced  Grobo,  in  his  homely 
little  apartment  abutting  onto  Charterhouse  Square,  and  the 
heir  of  a  far-distant  kingdom — what  could  they  have  to  do 
with  each  other?  Why,  the  very  idea  was  as  far-fetched  as 
the  country  itself.  Even  Stratton  himself,  always  on  the  qui 
vive  for  the  so-called  impossible,  smiled  when  Mullings,  the 
fat  and  flabby,  spoke  of  it. 

"  Really,  Mullings,  I  do  think  you  are  letting  your  imagi- 
nation run  away  with  you  this  time!" 

Mullings,  eighteen  stone  if  he  was  a  pound!  Something  of 
a  weight-carrier,  an  imagination  like  that:  worthy  of  respect, 
too;  for  after  all,  he  knew  nothing  of  that  attic  store,  apart 
from  what  Grobo  himself  had  told  him ;  and  even  then,  a  lesser 
man  might  have  made  the  mistake  of  thinking  that  he  lied. 

"  No  one  would  take  me  alive,  no  one  would  come  out 
alive!"  he  had  said.  "Send  anyone  you  like  to  search  my  'ons». 


68  LAURA  CREICHTON 

All  I  say  is  this — insure  their  lives  first,  Monsieur  Mullings; 
'eavy — as  'eavy  as  possible — for  they  will  go  up  to  'eaven,  even 
if  I  go  with  them — comme  ga.  Sh — sh — sh — sh — sh — ut-t-t!" 

His  imitation  of  a  rocket  was  superb,  perfected  down  to  a 
sharp  tap  of  his  toe  upon  the  floor,  to  show  where  the  stick 
fell.  .  .  . 

The  police  authorities,  the  secret  agents  of  other  countries 
— France,  Austria,  Russia,  Bulgaria,  Roumania — had  more 
than  once  hinted  that  they  would  be  glad  to  feel  him  safe 
within  their  own  fold.  They  would  not  say  why,  and  they 
could  not  insist,  for  their  reasons  were  such  as  they  did  not 
care  to  give:  much  the  same  sort  of  reasons  as  those  which 
disposed  the  English  authorities  to  keep  Grobo  to  themselves. 
He  knew  too  much;  that  was  the  fact  of  the  matter:  too  much 
of  certain  things  which  went  on  in  Vienna,  in  Paris,  Bucharest, 
Buda-Pesth,  Sofia,  London;  in  pretty  well  every  town  in 
Europe;  was,  indeed,  like  one  of  those  precocious  children 
whom  it  is  best  to  keep  from  mischievous  prattling,  safely 
tucked  away  in  their  own  nurseries;  for  it  is  certain  that  he 
was  most  dangerous  to  those  countries  which  he  did  not,  at 
the  moment,  inhabit. 

As  for  Mr.  Mullings:  Mullings  would  have  missed  him 
sorely;  felt  that  the  mainspring,  the  excitement  of  life  was  gone 
without  Grobo.  There  were,  indeed,  moments  like  this  special 
evening  when  he  might  have  been  glad  to  see  the  last  of  him, 
for  the  simple  reason  that  he  was  utterly  wearied  out  by  him ; 
though,  even  so,  it  would  have  been  gall  and  wormwood  to 
have  rendered  him  up  to  the  officials  of  any  other  nation.  Not 
to  have  said,  mind  you,  "  I  find  nothing  against  him  " — not  if 
he  spoke  the  truth — but,  "We  have  utterly  failed  to  catch 
him,"  in  the  "  catch-him-at-it "  sense  of  the  word.  For  even 
supposing  that  any  pretence  might  be  found  for  putting  him 
in  prison,  he  could  not  be  kept  there  forever;  and  there  was 
no  stopping  him  from  thinking,  planning,  while  he  was  there; 
no  way  of  getting  at  his  associates — that  avenue  of  information 
would,  indeed,  be  completely  blocked.  At  present  there  was 
something  to  be  learned  from  observing  those  with  whom  he 
consorted.  Once  make  sure  of  all  the  little  fry  which  swarmed 
around  Grobo,  and  one  might,  perhaps,  make  sure  of  him, 
himself.  As  for  the  hope  of  anyone  turning  King's  evidence: 
there  were  people,  for  the  most  part  feeble  and  inefficient 
amateurs  of  crime,  who  were  inevitably  betrayed;  but  Carl 
Grobo  stood  apart  from  these,  and  the  others  knew  it.  No  one 
would  ever  betray  him.  More  than  one  man,  most  certainly 


LAURA  CREICHTON  69 

instigated  to  crime  by  this  bland  and  rosy  cherub,  had  suffered 
imprisonment,  death  even;  but  not  so  much  as  a  single  word 
had  been  dropped.  They  might  have  argued — and  indeed  it 
was  put  to  them,  clearly,  kindly — that  nothing  could  be  worse 
than  death,  and  that  Grobo's  revenge  was,  on  the  whole,  less 
certain  than  the  hangman's  rope;  but  no  one  of  his  tools 
could  ever  be  brought  to  see  it  in  this  light,  even  to  the  extent 
of  confessing  that  they  knew  of  any  such  person. 

"  For  the  sake  of  your  family,  you  should  cultivate  friends 
apart  from  Government  employees.  Even  those  in  the  least 
elevated,  the  least  conspicuous  of  positions,  are  scarcely 
wholesome  for  you.  You  must  know  that,  Grobo." 

The  pallid  man — odd  that  two  people  should  both  be  so 
fat  and  yet  so  unlike — spoke  almost  deprecatingly.  The 
whole  thing  was  coming  too  near  home  for  his  liking;  it  was 
getting  too  big,  too  widely  diffused.  Grobo  and  those  men  of 
mystery  who  directed  him  were  sending  out  too  many  shoots 
or  runners;  there  was  no  grappling  with  them. 

Mullings,  like  other  masters  of  men,  great  artists  in 
management,  had  kept  his  inferiors  in  their  places  so  jealously 
that  they  were  less  use  to  him  than  they  might  have  been.  All 
very  well  to  watch  Grobo;  but  Grobo  made  use  of  many 
other  men,  aye,  and  women  too,  and  to  leave  these  unregarded 
would  have  been  fatal. 

That  day  when  he  shadowed  Paul  Vortonitch  through 
Woolwich  to  Blackheath  he  was  worn  out  with  it;  so  tired 
that  he  had  fallen  into  the  stupidity  of  allowing  himself  to  be 
re-encountered  at  the  station.  And  yet,  feeling  himself  not 
quite  so  altogether  up  to  his  work  as  he  had  been,  he  was  all 
the  more  anxious  to  keep  this  Grobo  affair,  so  long  acknowl- 
edged as  his  special  preserve,  in  his  own  hands. 

If  only  Grobo  would  turn  King's  evidence,  betray  his 
fellows,  or  himself  come  over  to  the  enemy!  Better  still, 
that!  What  a  detective  he  would  make!  What  a  help  he 
would  be,  with  his  influence,  his  knowledge.  Mullings'  super- 
fatted heart  yearned  towards  him.  Talk  of  the  poacher  turned 
gamekeeper ! 

"This  is  the  fourth  time  that  you  have  dined  here  to- 
gether; he  has  shown  you  over  the  clothing  factory;  you  have 
met  in  the  park,  at  his  own  club  in  the  Wilton  Road,  at  his 
lodgings  .  .  ." 

The  police  agent's  voice  was  full  of  weariness;  it  was  as 
though  he  would  have  said:  "Really,  it  is  too  much;  I  can- 
not spend  my  entire  life  dodging  about  after  you!" 


70  LAURA  CREICHTON 

"  It  would  be  best  to  drop  it  all,  you  know.  So  long  as  the 
results  of  your  work  remained  abroad,  you  were  comparatively 
safe;  but  now,  with  so  many  irons  in  the  fire,  you'll  burn 
your  own  fingers  in  the  end.  You  know  that,  Grobo." 

Grobo's  bland  glance  was  unwavering;  but  for  all  that,  he 
perfectly  realised  the  truth  of  what  was  said. 

He  was  more  deeply,  more  nearly  involved  than  he  had 
been  for  years.  For  a  long  time  now,  he  had  thrown  his  net 
so  wide  that  there  was  comparatively  little  chance  of  his  own 
feet  becoming  entangled;  but  now  that  vast  web,  which  he 
himself  had  so  largely  helped  to  weave,  was  thickening, 
spreading  so  that  in  the  course  of  that  world-wide  haul — for 
which  he  and  those  over  him  had  been  so  long  preparing — he 
might  well  find  himself  caught,  dragged  down,  the  fisher 
perishing  among  the  fish. 

He  realised  this,  always  had  realised  it:  his  wife  and  even 
the  elder  among  his  children  were  prepared  for  it;  he  re- 
spected Mullings  for  his  realisation  of  it.  But  there  it  was:  a 
fact  to  be  faced,  a  part  of  life,  as,  after  all,  death  is.  His  only 
real  fear  was  of  some  premature  exposure,  the  fatal  over- 
eagerness  of  any  one  of  his  disciples. 

As  for  giving  up  the  great  idea,  the  carefully-laid  scheme 
for  a  series  of  outrages  against  crowned  heads,  governments, 
recognised  institutions,  capitalists,  military  and  civil  powers, 
so  immense,  so  far-reaching,  that  the  entire  system  would  be, 
and  would  for  long  remain,  completely  dislocated — when 
the  world  would  be  run,  like  a  motor-car,  by  a  series  of 
small  explosions,  exploitations,  excitements — that  was  out  of 
the  question.  He  could  not  have  stopped  it  if  he  would; 
and  he  would  not  if  he  could.  The  chances  of  himself  perish- 
ing might  be — and  indeed  were — ninety  per  cent  against  him; 
but  it  would  be  worth  while  to  end  one's  life  in  such  a 
flare;  while,  supposing  he  did  survive,  England  was  his: 
they  could  do  what  they  liked  with  the  other  countries;  but 
England! — England  was  his  wash-pot.  He  saw  himself  as 
the  first  Dictator,  with  the  power  of  life  and  death;  sport,  the 
sort  of  sport  the  rich  landowners  had  with  their  pheasants, 
the  sport  of  killing,  all  his  own.  He  even  saw — and  here  his 
family  affection,  his  family  idealism  got  the  better  of  his 
judgment,  for  no  one  knew  better  than  he  did  the  brief 
tenure,  the  insecurity  of  such  power — Albert  as  his  right 
hand,  succeeding  him. 

As  for  Mullings — his  small,  weary  eyes  almost  lost  in  an 
immensity  of  countenance — what  was  it  that  he  saw?  A 


LAURA  CREICHTON  71 

monstrous  growth  which  it  was  imperative  to  grapple  with 
before  it  should  have  come  to  its  full  ripeness,  breaking  in 
a  series  of  horrors  which  no  sane  man  could  bear  to  con- 
template: a  bloody  orgy  of  lust  and  self-seeking,  mad  fear, 
greed;  destruction  for  the.  sake  of  destruction;  a  universal 
catastrophe  compared  to  which  the  memory  of  the  world's  vrar 
would  seem  a  strenuous,  yet  well-ordered  game. 

He  was  growing  old,  tired;  things  were  getting  too  big  for 
him;  and  yet  it  seemed  that  they  must  swell  to  an  appalling 
size  before  anything  could  be  done  to  lance  the  tumour  which 
threatened  to  devour  Europe.  Unless — unless — well,  unless 
people  like  this  little  fat,  fair  man,  with  a  face  like  a  German 
schoolgirl,  would  voluntarily  throw  up  the  game,  join  forces 
with  those  of  law  and  order  which  would  rise,  and  re-rise— 
must  re-rise  from  all  the  trampling  of  blood  and  mud,  let 
them  try  as  they  would  to  prevent  it. 

"Drop  it,  Grobo;  you'll  gain  nothing." 

"Movement!"  cried  the  other,  with  that  sudden  flare  and 
intensity  which  had  so  impressed  Harbin,  impressing  every- 
body in  its  rare  manifestation,  the  seeming  strangeness  of  its 
contrast  to  the  ground  from  which  it  sprang.  "Movement! 
The  breaking  up  of  this  stagnation  of  civilisation — upheaval, 
destruction,  re-birth.  Life  and  death  in  the  place  of  mere 
existence." 

"Ah,  well!"  Mullings  rose  heavily,  drawing  himself  to- 
gether so  as  to  loosen  the  pressure  of  his  person  against  his 
pockets,  get  at  his  money  to  pay  his  bill.  "  Only  remember 
it's  come  to  this.  You're  getting  more  personally  involved 
with  smaller — and  therefore  less  trustworthy — people,  and 
nearer  home  than  before.  If  we  find  we  can't  dig  the  thing 
up  by  the  root — as  yet,  as  yet — we'll  lop  off  the  main  boughs; 
and  you'll  be  one  of  the  first  to  go." 

Grobo  smiled  deprecatingly.  "Likely  enough,  Monsieur; 
likely  enough.  Allow  me."  He  put  out  his  hand  to  help 
the  other  on  with  his  coat,  tiptoeing  to  raise  the  collar;  then 
added : 

"But  not  alone,  Monsieur  Mullings;  not  alone — remember 
that." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

"YOUR  lesson,  to-day,  eh,  Laura?  Well,  I'm  going  up  by 
the  one-forty-five;  you  can  come  up  with  me;  then  I'll  give 
you  tea  somewhere  after  it's  all  over,  eh?  What  do  you  say 
to  that?" 

Laura  murmured  something;  it  did  not  matter  what,  for 
General  Creichton,  brisk  and  kindly,  with  that  air  of  family 
indulgence,  was  not  making  a  suggestion,  but  issuing  an  order, 
disguised  in  his  own  mind  as  a  conferring  of  a  favour. 

They  were  at  breakfast,  and  Laura  was  sitting  with  her 
back  to  such  light  as  there  was;  for  the  great  cedar,  tilted 
sideways  like  an  immense  dark-coloured  parasol,  flooded  the 
room  with  a  depth  of  green  shadow,  so  that  there  was  no  very 
clear  view  of  her  face.  Not  that,  even  if  there  had  been, 
anyone  would  have  thought  of  taking  notice  of  the  expression 
upon  it.  For  of  course  Laura  would  be  pleased  to  have  her 
father's  company  up  to  town,  tea  out  with  him:  men  were  so 
much  more  generous  than  women  in  matters  of  that  sort — the 
right  sort  of  place,  the  best  sort  of  cakes — as  Marjorie  realised, 
volunteering  her  own  company: 

"  If  you'll  make  it  Rumpelmayer's,  I'll  come  too." 

"  I  rather  thought  of  going  up  with  Laura,"  put  in  Lady 
Creichton.  "There's  a  white  sale  at  Evans'  .  .  .  But  I  don't 
know — I  don't  really  want  anything  very  much,  and  if  your 
father's  going,  and  Marjorie  .  .  .  You'll  go  to  Ridgway's 
about  the  tea,  won't  you,  dear? — Perhaps,  if  your  father 
wasn't  going  .  .  ." 

General  Sir  Harry  Creichton  rose  from  the  breakfast-table, 
gathering  together  his  letters  and  papers. 

"  Lunch  at  one  sharp — and  mind  you  girls  are  ready." 

"  I  think  I  will  come."  Lady  Creichton  spoke  more  or 
less  into  the  air  as  her  husband  left  the  room,  stirring  her 
second  cup  of  coffee.  "  We  are  really  getting  short  of  pillow- 
slips— and  then  there  are  glass-cloths.  I  never  can  make  out 
what  servants  do  with  glass-cloths  and  dusters.  Marjorie 
and  I  can  get  through  our  shopping  while  you  have  your 
lesson,  Laura;  then  we  can  all  meet  for  tea.  Perhaps  I  shall 

72 


LAURA  CREICHTON  73 

have  time  to  slip  into  the  Army  and  Navy  before  I  come 
home,  or  we  might  arrange  to  have  tea  there;  we're  running 
out  of  writing-paper.  There  seems  to  be  always  something  or 
other.  And  oh,  Laura,  here's  an  invitation  from  the  Macauleys 
for  dinner  on  the  seventh;  you  and  your  father  and  I.  We 
can't  accept  it  because  he'll  be  away,  and  they'll  hate  having 
two  women  alone.  Will  you  write,  darling?  And  if  you  do 
go  down  in  the  village,  see  if  you  can  get  any  books.  Some- 
thing by  somebody  one  knows;  all  these  new  people  are  no 
good;  not  fit  to  leave  about  for  servants  to  pick  up — and 
they'll  read  anything,  these  days!" 

Still  Laura  did  not  answer.  She  had  risen  from  the  table 
at  the  same  time  as  her  father,  moved  over  towards  the  open 
windows,  the  centre  of  them  reaching  to  the  floor  in  a  wide 
rounded  bay,  and  now  stood  looking  out,  playing  with  the 
tassel  of  the  blind,  a  new,  withdrawn  look  upon  her  face;  a 
quiet  obstinacy,  as  though  there  were  certain  things  which 
she  was  determined  to  keep  to  herself,  out  of  the  way  of  all 
this  arranging  and  discussing. 

Her  father  and  mother  had  always  settled  things  for  her; 
went  on  settling  as  they  had  done  for  close  upon  eighteen 
years.  It  seemed,  in  that  long  cool  room,  flooded  with  green 
light,  as  though  she  were  a  fish  which  must  forever  swim 
round  and  round  in  the  same  tank.  It  is  odd  that  Paul  Vor- 
tonitch,  returning  to  London  that  evening  of  their  first  meet- 
ing, should  have  had  much  the  same  illusion!  She  had  never 
had  so  much  as  a  thought  of  imprisonment,  much  less  wanted 
to  be  free,  before;  but  she  wanted  it  desperately  now;  as 
desperately  as  a  person  who  is  held  down  under  water,  suffo- 
cating and  struggling. 

There  was  a  big  glass  jar  of  early  roses  in  the  middle  of 
the  shining  white  table-cloth.  White  damask  and  silver,  the 
mingled  scent  of  flowers  and  coffee — odd  how  the  smell  of 
bacon  always  ran  forward  to  meet  one  at  breakfast-time,  then 
receded — all  this  was  what  she  was  accustomed  to  regard  as 
the  essential  opening  of  a  day;  and  yet,  all  of  a  sudden,  it  had 
taken  upon  itself  an  air  of  complete  unreality,  like  something 
strange;  crowding,  pressing  in  upon  her;  something  that  was 
not  right,  in  a  contradictory  way,  because  it  was  so  altogether 
right,  well-ordered,  perfect. 

"  Strange."  Yes,  that  was  the  word.  Something  be- 
longing to  an  altogether  alien  age  and  world.  And  yet, 
though  she  had  to  tell  herself  so,  it  was  just  exactly  as  she  had 
always  seen  it  since  she  was  first  old  enough  to  breakfast  down- 


74  LAURA  CREICHTON 

stairs :  the  eggs  in  a  patent  silver  boiler  heated  with  methylated 
spirit,  crisp  toast  in  silver  racks  fashioned  like  five-barred 
gates;  her  mother  herself,  her  fair  hair  silvered  with  grey, 
with  her  air  of  freshness,  of  being  absolutely  newly-bathed, 
almost  newly-born  so  far  as  the  world,  apart  from  her  own  set, 
was  concerned.  And  yet,  only  yesterday  .  .  .  Ah,  yes;  that 
was  what  it  was,  that  was  what  had  changed  the  aspect  of 
everything.  It  was  yesterday  that  she,  Laura,  had  been  hearing 
of  a  life  so  different,  so  strenuous,  so  bare  of  all  possible  de- 
cencies: a  life  where  cold  and  hunger  dehumanised  a  man  so 
that  his  whole  heart  and  soul  were  drawn  to  one  agonising 
point  beneath  his  own  belt — a  life  where  men,  half  naked, 
struggled  together  like  wild  beasts  for  a  scrap  of  offal;  where 
men  dropping  out  from  sickness  or  fatigue  were  left  behind  to 
die;  forsaken  by  their  fellows  with  but  one  thought — "The 
better  chance,  the  more  food — if  any — for  the  rest  of  us."  A 
life  where  people  sold  themselves  and  sold  their  children  for 
food:  a  life  forever  involved  with  death,  disease,  despair; 
frayed  out  by  an  endless  succession  of  wrongs.  Twenty-four 
hours  since  it  had  been  forced  upon  her  that  such  things  were 
possible,  out  of  books:  twenty-four  hours,  and  yet  she  still 
felt  physically  battered. 

The  man  who  spoke  of  it,  told  her  such  things — what  a 
marvel  he  was!  How  different  from  anyone  she  had  ever 
known  before!  At  that  first  meeting  he  had  seemed  so  gay 
and  boyish;  and  so  he  was  this  last  time  "gay  and  boyish" 
— but  in  streaks,  intermingled  with  a  desperate  earnestness, 
bitterness  and  despair,  not  over  his  own  sufferings — he  could 
laugh  at  those — "the  fortunes  of  that  war  called  life,  into 
which  we  have  got  ourselves  conscripted " — but  over  those 
of  others:  the  young;  the  aged;  the  sick  and  helpless. 

It  had  impressed  Laura  to  such  an  extent  that  it  was 
little  wonder  everything  around  her  now  seemed  strange,  and 
not  only  strange,  altogether  wrong,  but  utterly  despicable. 

All  this  eternal  fuss  over  personal  comfort,  all  this 
"arranging";  how  she  hated  that  word!  "This  must  be 
arranged  " — "  that  must  be  arranged  " — "  upsetting  all  our 
arrangements."  .  .  .  What  "  arrangements "  were  possible 
for  people  at  a  stark  grip  with  premature,  with  wasteful 
death? 

It  came  now,  as  she  knew  it  would.  "  If  we  can  arrange 
with  your  father  to  meet  at  the  Stores " 

"Tea  at  the  Stores!  Oh,  mother,  too  putrid!  I  won't  go 
if  you  do  that."  This  from  Marjorie,  who  went  on  protesting; 


LAURA  CREICHTON  75 

sure  of  her  own  way — anyhow,  so  far  as  her  mother  was  con- 
cerned. 

There  was  a  warm,  low-blowing  wind  through  the  garden, 
and  the  white  muslin  inner  curtains  billowed  forward  into  the 
room,  dropped  straight  for  a  moment,  and  then  billowed 
forth  again,  bringing  with  them  the  scent  of  syringa. 

Marjorie,  having  left  the  room  in  search  of  her  school-books 
and  hat,  reappeared;  and — as  was  her  habit — snatched  a  fresh 
piece  of  toast,  piled  it  with  marmalade,  and  began  to  eat 
again.  A  greedy  child,  with  a  habit  of  picking  over  the  table 
after  she  had  really  finished. 

"  I  think  I'll  have  to  come,"  said  Lady  Creichton,  almost 
appealingly,  anxious  for  an  afternoon  in  town,  and  hoping 
that  someone  would  lend  her  the  support  of  declaring  her 
reasons  valid. 

But  Marjorie  did  not  want  her;  she  liked  going  about  with 
her  handsome,  soldierly-looking  father,  and  family  parties 
were  so  "  stodgy."  "  Two's  company,"  she  thought,  and 
wished  that  Laura  were  not  coming  either,  though  it  was,  so 
to  speak,  "  Laura's  party."  There  was  a  fortune-teller  in 
Bond  Street — it  would  be  a  great  adventure  to  go  to  a  fortune- 
teller alone.  Though  perhaps,  after  all,  it  would  be  better 
to  have  Laura  with  her,  if  only  Laura  could  be  persuaded  to 
skip  her  singing  lesson.  She  thought  of  all  this  as  she 
crammed  her  mouth,  planning,  seeing  no  reason  why  the 
whole  of  creation  should  not  group  itself  to  fit  her  fancy; 
mere  backgrounds  and  supports  for  that  one  insistent  "  I." 

As  for  Laura,  she  did  not  want  her  mother  to  come,  or  her 
father  either;  certainly  not  Marjorie!  Still  feeling  as  though 
she  were  being  crowded  out  of  life,  suffocated,  she  would  have 
liked  to  push  them  all  aside,  violently,  run  away  alone  into 
the  open.  Why  should  they  all  want  to  go  up  to  town  this 
very  day  of  all  days? 

There  was  a  sudden  frantic  wildness  about  her;  a  feeling 
of  desperation,  of  not  knowing  herself.  If  Stratton  had  been 
there  he  would  have  read  all  this  in  her  eyes,  so  dilated  as  to 
be  nearly  all  pupil;  her  flushed  cheek. 

They  had  all  the  rest  of  the  week  to  go  up  to  town  in. 
Why,  oh  why,  should  they  spoil  her  day — hers?  Her  mother 
did  not  like  her  going  alone;  but  for  all  that,  she  had  been  up 
alone;  and  more  than  once,  for  the  simple  reason  that  the 
others  were  so  often  engrossed  in  their  own  affairs,  caught  in  a 
web  of  small  engagements,  in  the  midst  of  which,  "Oh,  Laura, 
I  forgot  it's  your  singing  lesson ! "  came  as  a  perpetual  surprise. 


76  LAURA  CREICHTON 

"Better  ring  up  Betty  Henderson;  she  said  she  wanted  to 
go  up  the  next  day  we  went."  This  from  Marjorie.  who  was 
thinking,  "  If  only  I  can  choke  off  mother,  it  will  be  much 
better  fun  going  to  Madame  le  Sage  with  Betty  than  it  would 
be  with  Laura — Laura's  such  a  stick-in-the-mud." 

"  Oh,  let  them  all  come ! "  thought  Laura  to  herself, 
strangely  hot  and  savage.  After  all,  though  she  did  not  dare 
to  oppose  her  father  and  mother — perhaps  because  she  had 
not  even  thought  of  it — she  had,  and  thank  goodness  for  that! 
— reached  a  point  where  she  could  and  would  put  up  a  fight 
against  Marjorie. 

"  How  can  you  come?     It's  not  Saturday." 

"It's  mid-term.  No  afternoon  work;  no  work  at  all 
after  this  morning,  until  Tuesday  morning.  That's  why 
Betty'll  be  free.  Laura,  you  ring  up  the  Hendersons  while 
I'm  out:  Betty  and  I  are  in  different  classes;  I  might  miss 
seeing  her.  And  tell  her,  whatever  she  does,  not  to  wear  that 
blue  linen  thing  of  hers — it  simply  kills  my  blue." 

"Why  should  you  wear  your  blue?" 

"Well,  why  shouldn't  I?"  Marjorie's  stare  was  frankly 
surprised.  "Anyhow,  ring  them  up,  won't  you?"  she  added, 
and  swung  from  the  room. 

"Laura  dear,  when  you've  done  everything  else,  I  wonder 
if  you'd  mind  running  over  to  Mrs.  Carstairs?  Tell  her  I  can't 
be  fitted  to-day  because  I'm  going  up  to  town.  Thanks,  darling. 
I  really  don't  know  what  I  would  do  without  you,  Laura." 

"  Oh — oh — oh — oh — OH ! "  Laura  could  not  have  ex- 
plained what  she  meant  by  this,  glancing  almost  wildly  round 
the  room  as  her  mother  left  it.  The  window  was  a  French 
one:  a  single  step  and  she  would  have  been  out  upon  the 
terrace,  while  the  door  was  wide  open;  but  for  all  that  she 
felt  hopelessly  imprisoned,  walled  round  with  people  and 
things — things — things — things — above  all,  things.  There  was 
the  silver  cream-jug,  still  a  third  full  of  cream;  Marjorie  had 
not  half  eaten  her  porridge;  even  the  cat  had  not  needed  it 
enough  to  finish  it,  and  the  blue  and  white  bowl  still  stood 
upon  the  hearthrug  where  it  had  been  placed,  with  enough  in 
it  to  feed  a  child  or  two.  A  child — such  a  child  as  she  had 
heard  of  in  the  famine  areas,  and  in  other  places,  before  the 
war  so  much  as  started,  much  less — what  was  it  he  called  it? 
"  this  devastating  peace " :  infants  in  arms,  and  others  of 
two  and  three  and  tour  years  old — the  plump  ages — with  the 
bones  cutting,  yes,  literally  cutting,  in  horrible  sores  through 
their  skin;  with  faces  old,  lined,  inexpressibly  anxious. 


LAURA  CREICHTON  77 

They  had  not  been  talking  together  for  more  than  half  an 
hour  in  all,  she  and  Paul  Vortonitch,  meeting  again  for  the 
third  time,  and  this  in  Greenwich  Park;  but  he  had  changed 
her  whole  outlook  on  life  by  what  he  said;  though  before 
that,  ever  since  their  first  meeting,  she  had  felt  within  herself 
a  curious  unrest  and  excitement,  like  that  silent  stir  in  water 
the  moment  before  it  boils. 

Up  to  this  time  there  had  been  the  rather  intangible  re- 
ligious beliefs  which  are  so  lightly  scratched  into  the  young 
in  these  days,  when  the  teachers  themselves  are  wavering, 
scarcely  believing,  scarcely  knowing  what  to  think;  her  own 
unselfish,  naturally  timid  nature,  and  the  desire  to  be  happy  in 
exactly  the  same  way  as  she  believed  the  rest  of  her  world  to 
be  happy,  safe  and  comfortable.  All  very  simple  and  sure. 

But  now,  as  it  seemed,  she  was  torn  wildly  from  her 
anchorage:  "No  one  but  a  fool  can  be  happy  in  a  world  like 
this!"  That  was  what  Vortonitch  had  said.  "No  sane  person 
has  a  right  to  be  happy,  with  other  people  starving,  with 
preventable  death  and  disease  on  every  side.  The  tyranny 
of  poverty!  Oh,  I  could  tell  you !" 

And  he  did  tell  her,  of  Russia,  of  Austria,  of  the  scarcely 
less  dreadful  life  of  the  large  industrial  and  mining  towns  in 
England  and  America:  "  It  is  the  incessantly  overworked 
who  have  no  chance  of  holidays;  it  is  the  much-needed 
working-class  wife  and  mother  who  slips  into  the  grave  because 
she  has  neither  time  nor  money  for  treating  her  maladies;  it 
is  the  desperately  busy  and  overdriven  who  are  kept  waiting 
— waiting — waiting:  in  the  out-patient  departments  of  hos- 
pitals, in  offices,  at  the  doors  of  the  rich;  while  it  is  those 
who  have  never  done  an  honest  day's  work  in  their  lives  who 
run  for  rest  cures!  Mademoiselle,  humanity  as  a  whole — for 
you  and  yours  are  like  the  bright  bubbles  which  rise  to  the 
top  of  what  is  indescribable — is  incessantly  harried,  harried 
by  the  wolves  of  destiny.  Can  you  imagine  what  it  means, 
never  to  be  sure  of  a  roof  over  your  head  for  more  than  a  week 
in  front  of  you;  never  to  be  sure  of  the  job  which  means  life 
for  you  and  your  family;  everything  at  the  mercy,  the  caprice 
of  an  employer  who  knows  nothing  of,  cares  nothing  for,  you, 
your  efforts,  your  sorrows,  your  sicknesses?" 

No,  she  hadn't  thought;  she  had  never  heard  it  put  like 
this.  There  were  poor  people  and  rich  people:  that  was  all. 

"Read  Dostoievski,  to  see  what  life  can  be  like,  is  like  for 
so  many,  Mademoiselle,"  he  cried.  But  she  did  not  need  to 
read  of  such  things;  she  was  so  fresh  and  untouched  that  his 


78  LAURA  CREICHTON 

every  word  was  bitten  into  her  like  some  corroding  ink  upon  a 
piece  of  white  paper. 

The  horrors  of  war,  a  Dance  of  Death,  and  then  at  the  end  a 
life  worse  than  death ;  a  so-called  peace  more  hopeless  than  any 
war — "  If  they  hanged  the  Kaiser,  who  made  the  war,  what 
would  they  do  to  the  men  who  arranged  the  terms  of  peace? 

"Peace!  Peace!  A  feasting  in  a  charnel-house!  A  feast 
of  kings,  who  with  their  greed,  their  jealousies,  their  women, 
their  family  loves  and  hates,  their  nepotism,  their  incessant, 
reckless  intrigues,  the  outcome  of  nothing  more  than  a  pro- 
found boredom  and  sense  of  insecurity,  have  torn  the  world 
to  ribbons,  dragging  it  through  mud  and  blood;  driving  it, 
rather,  it  and  every  man's  son  with  it,  themselves,  as  they 
think,  safe  and  high  on  the  box-seat,  handling  the  reins — reins 
and  lash!" 

If  there  must  be  kings,  if  by  some  awful,  unchanging 
decree  certain  nations  were  damned  to  the  recognition  of  such 
rulers,  let  them  be  foundlings,  or  torn,  like  Caesar,  from  their 
mother's  womb.  Think  of  CEdipus,  safe  and  happy,  those 
around  him  safe  and  happy,  up  to  the  time  he  realised  his 
parentage.  .  .  .  All  the  petty  quarrels  of  private  families, 
trickles  of  spite,  flooded  out,  bursting  forth  in  the  blood  of 
multitudes  where  kings  were  concerned.  Had  she  ever  thought 
of  that? 

No,  she  hadn't.  Nothing  could  be  more  different  from 
everything  she  had  ever  thought  of,  heard. 

"  Think  back,  Mademoiselle ;  think  back  over  your  history 
lessons.  In  all  the  annals  of  history,  has  there  ever  been  any 
war  when  there  was  not  a  god  or  a  king — religion;  a  king's 
greed,  a  king's  wife  or  a  king's  mistress — at  the  back  of  it 
all?  Eliminate  God  and  His  kings,  the  chances  of  war  sprung 
upon  humanity  by  men  as  jealous,  and  restless,  and  unsure  of 
their  place  as  the  divinity  they  have  created  in  their  own 
image,  and  the  world  will  be  a  possible  place  to  live  in.  Kings 
stir  up  wars  as  a  cook  stirs  up  a  pudding  with  a  spoon;  if  the 
people  were  once  sure  of  peace  they  would  have  leisure  to 
regard  them  dispassionately;  realise  their  uselessness;  and 
they  know  that — that  is  what  they  fear.  It  is  in  times  of 
peace  that  the  revolutions  come,  so-called  heresies  creep  in; 
for  it  is  then  that  men  have  time  for  thought.  With  God  as 
the  Celestial  Bogey  Man,  kings  as  policemen  for  ever  moving 
them  on  and  on,  what  can  be  done  with  humanity?  Driven 
— driven — that's  what  the  world  is,  with  its  God  and  its  kings 
— its  God  and  its  kings!" 


LAURA  CREICHTON  79 

"But  kings — there  has  always  been  a  king  in  England; 
and,  of  course  .  .  .  Well,  there  is — God — you  know."  Laura's 
voice  dropped  with  that  grave  reverence  which  was  the  habit 
of  her  youth;  her  face  was  a  little  flushed,  her  candid  eyes, 
troubled  but  steady,  full  upon  Vortonitch. 

He  wanted  to  retort,  "Why  do  you  say  I  know?  How  do 
you  know?  What  proof  have  you?"  but  something  like  pity 
turned  him;  and,  after  all,  she  was  as  he  wanted  her  to  be. 
But,  all  the  same,  it  was  impossible  to  keep  silence,  and  he 
went  on,  almost  sullenly: 

"God  and  the  king!  Look  how  they  back  each  other, 
cling  to  each  other's  skirts,  shelter  behind  each  other.  Your 
Dickens  has  two  characters — I  forget  their  names,  but  there 
they  are — it  is  always  the  other  one  who  is  to  blame.  *  It  was 
the  will  of  God.'  '  It  was  your  duty  to  your  King.' 

"Mademoiselle,  do  you  think,  have  you  ever  thought,  of 
how  this  war,  which  is  not  yet  over,  arose?  By  what  right 
men  drove  other  men  to  tread  the  faces  of  their  fellows  down 
into  the  mud?  Think  of  mothers  suckling  their  children, 
bathing  them,  tending  them  in  sickness  and  in  health;  toiling 
for  them,  sitting  up  at  night  for  them,  wrapped  up  in  them, 
living  in  them  and  for  them  for  twenty  years  and  more;  no 
expense,  nothing  spared — 'Nothing  good  enough  for  my  son, 
my  darling  son!'  And  then  a  shell  from  miles  and  miles 
away,  far  away  out  of  sight,  fired  by  a  man  whom  they  have 
never  seen,  who  has  never  seen  them,  for  a  reason  of  which 
they  know  nothing,  for  reasons  for  which  they  would  refuse  to 
recognise  a  neighbour.  King!  A  sound  like  the  singing  in  a 
telephone  wire,  torn  calico,  and  then  .  .  .  What  then?  .  .  . 
'  The  grandeur  of  death  for  one's  country ' — fearful  fragments 
of  flesh,  a  spatter  of  brains,  blood,  offal — something  you 
could  not  bear  to  look  at,  something  which  the  God  Whom 
you  are  commanded  to  love  is  supposed  to  have  made  in  His 
own  image.  'Be  resigned;  they  are  happy' — that's  what 
we  are  told.  '  They  did  right,  dying  for  their  King.'  For 
their  king — for  their  king!  That  is  what  they  tell  us,  the 
kings  themselves  tell  us  that — opening  their  charity  bazaars 
in  aid  of  widows  and  orphans!  Those  kings,  with  their  family 
secrets  and  jealousies,  their  bloody  conclaves,  their  infamous 
relationships — that  murder-ring  of  monarchy! — kept  going 
at  an  almost  incredible  expense,  toll  of  brain  and  muscle  and 
time  from  every  man  and  woman  in  their  kingdoms;  by  a 
fantastic  obsession  of  loyalty;  by  a  people  piling  up  and 
pouring  out  millions  and  millions  of  pounds  in  ships,  in  hired 


80  LAURA  CREICHTON 

assassins,  in  materials  of  death  and  destruction,  for  the 
exploitation  of  quarrels,  petty  and  mean,  with  which  they 
themselves  have  nothing  whatever  to  do — family  quarrels. 

"Nicky  and  the  Kaiser!  People  actually  laugh  about  it 
even  now — your  comic  papers  have  jokes — funny  pictures. 
The  King  of  Greece  and  his  German  wife — Ferdinand  of 
Bulgaria — Spain  with  her  Jack-in-the-box — Italy,  dragged 
into  a  conflict  which  was  no  affair  of  hers,  forced  into  a 
mesalliance;  then,  again,  forced  into  falseness;  pushed  here, 
pulled  there;  gathering  up  the  pieces,  weeping,  cursing.  Put 
your  finger  in  turns  upon  the  kings  in  Europe,  with  their  con- 
sanguinity of  falseness,  their  family  intrigues  and  jealousies, 
dragging  the  world  to  hell — count  them  over,  one  by  one.  Is 
there  a  single  one  whom  we  could  not  well  do  without,  breathe 
freer  to  be  quit  of?  Why,  think  of  your  own  king — George 
of  England — proud  title! — 'the  rights  of  little  nations'  in 
his  mouth,  Ireland  in  tatters  about  his  feet,  and  German 
blood,  thick  and  cloying  through  his  veins.  Cousins — cousins 
— cousins — kings  and  their  cousins!  What  did  the  Old 
Testament  say  of  '  root  and  branch '  ?  Kill  but  one 
king  with  all  his  cousins,  and  the  world  would  be  free, 
Mademoiselle." 

This  was  not  all — even  if  every  word  were  written  down, 
so  often  repeated,  so  old  and  stale — it  could  not  be  all,  for 
Paul  Vortonitch's  eyes  and  voice  would  be  missing.  He 
could  never  have  talked  like  this  to  one  of  his  own  people;  it 
was  the  sort  of  thing  he  despised.  The  talkers  were  the 
people  who  did  nothing,  blowing  their  will  to  bits  with  words. 
But  now,  almost  unknown  to  himself,  he  was  like  a  peacock, 
consciously  spreading  its  tail;  or  like — and  that's  good  for  its 
very  oppositeness — like  a  dove  in  springtime,  the  "  livelier 
purple  "  on  its  breast. 

He  wanted  Laura  Creichton,  for  what  she  herself  was,  so 
ineffably  sweet  and  fresh,  so  different  from  everything  which 
he  had  ever  known  before;  and  for  what  she  represented — 
the  source  of  almost  unlimited  information. 

He  put  this  first,  to  himself;  and  yet  there  was  that  sense 
of  excitement  which  arose  from  some  far  warmer  feeling;  if 
there  had  not  been,  he  would  not  have  run  the  risk  of  scaring 
her,  rousing  her  suspicion  by  spreading  his  peacock  tail  in 
just  that  fashion  which  he  had.  And  yet,  how  effectual  it 
all  was,  nailing  his  colours  to  her  mast  as  something  rather 
terrifying,  and  yet  fascinatingly  diverse  from  all  that  she  had 
ever  known  before. 


LAURA  CREICHTON  81 

For  the  rest  of  her  life  Greenwich  Park,  as  it  looked  that 
afternoon,  would  be  set — as  some  place  must  be,  for  every  one 
of  us — blazoned  in  her  own  colour,  which  was  not  the  pink  of 
England  or  England's  possessions,  ridiculously,  disproportion- 
ately large  upon  the  map  of  the  world. 

The  May  bloom  was  past  its  prime;  the  rose-red  dulled 
and  faded,  almost  indistinguishable  from  the  drabbish  white. 
Its  loveliness  had  been  thafc  of  youth;  but  now  that  it  was 
gone  it  was  scarcely  missed;  for  the  splendid  levels,  the  hills 
and  hollows,  the  blackness  of  the  trunks,  the  tapestry -like 
foliage  of  those  famous  Spanish  chestnuts,  set  out  by  John 
Evelyn,  were  enough  in  themselves,  like  an  Albert  Diirer 
woodcut;  ending — as  he  might  have  ended  it — in  the  Greek- 
like  structure,  the  arcades  and  columns,  of  the  Naval  College; 
the  winding  riband  of  the  Thames;  the  masts  of  ships;  and, 
far  away,  the  rounded  hills  of  Highgate. 

They  had  sat  upon  a  bench  at  the  very  edge  of  that  hill 
cutting  the  northern  edge  of  the  Observatory  so  steeply  that 
coming  along  the  broad,  straight  drive  from  Blackheath  Park, 
it  seemed  as  though  the  world  must  end  with  it:  breaking  off 
into  blue  sky,  heaped,  cumulus  clouds. 

Driven  out  by  her  own  restlessness,  taking  one  of  those 
hurried,  impetuous  walks  which  had  now  become  part  of  her 
daily  life,  Laura  Creichton  seemed  to  see  herself  moving 
down  the  very  centre  of  that  short  yet  splendid  roadway — how 
few  Londoners  know  it,  how  few  Londoners  know  that  small 
but  incomparable  park  in  any  one  of  its  aspects,  let  alone  the 
many!  There  were  a  few  children  playing  among  the  shadows; 
for  the  rest,  it  was  empty;  with  its  chestnuts  at  either  side, 
its  amazing  end,  at  the  top  of  the  steep  and  sudden  slope 
where  Phoebus  himself  might  well  alight,  dropping  straight 
from  his  heaven,  reining  up  his  horses  there  on  the  edge  of  the 
world.  Though  it  was  not  Phoebus  whom  Laura  saw:  she 
would  not  have  cared  if  it  had  been — what  was  she  to  Phoebus 
or  Phoebus  to  her? — just  a  slight  man's  figure,  suddenly 
appearing,  cutting  the  sky. 

The  very  last  thing  he  had  said  was,  "  Friday.  You  are 
coming  up  on  Friday.  I  will  meet  you  at  the  station:  you 
are  coming  to  tea  with  me." 

She  had  protested,  "  Oh,  but  I  can't";  had  merely  played 
with  the  thought,  never  really  meant  to  go,  until  her  father 
took  it  for  granted  that  she  was  taking  tea  with  him,  and 
grateful  for  it,  too;  while  the  others  flowed  in  upon  her — 
"arranging"  her  out  of  life. 


82  LAURA  CREICHTON 

Supposing  he  met  her  at  the  station  with  her  father  and 
mother  and  Marjorie?  What  could  she  do?  What  could 
she  say?  It  would  spoil  everything  to  ignore  their  friendship 
— an  impossible,  a  mean,  despicable  thing  to  do — and  yet  how 
could  she  bear  to  see  him  "  run  over  "  by  their  eyes,  like  tape- 
measures? 

She  would  not  go;  she  would  plead  a  headache,  anything 
— anything. 

She  raced  through  her  errands;  but  she  did  not  ring  up 
the  Hendersons  and  ask  Betty  to  join  them,  and  she  did  not 
leave  the  message  with  Mrs.  Carstairs,  saying  that  her  mother 
could  not  be  fitted  because  she  was  going  up  to  town;  and 
this  alone  showed  that  her  despair  was,  like  all  youthful 
despair,  nothing  more  than  a  mere  woof  run  through  by  a 
warp  of  hope. 

And  justified,  after  all,  justified!  It  would  have  been 
ridiculous  to  feign  a  headache — a  duplication  of  headaches — 
two  in  a  house,  when  one  was  enough;  for,  arriving  home  in 
time  to  write  that  note  to  the  Macauleys  and  change  her 
dress  before  lunch — with  a  little  pucker  all  ready  prepared 
in  her  forehead,  a  feeling  that  her  head,  if  it  did  not  ache, 
might  easily  burst — Laura  found  her  mother  lying  down  on  a 
sofa  in  the  carefully  shaded  drawing-room. 

"One  of  my  headaches,  darling;  it  must  be  the  sun.  I 
was  out  in  the  garden,  seeing  that  Clutterbuck  staked  those 
delphiniums  properly — I'm  afraid  I  shan't  be  able  to  come  up 
to  town  after  all." 

Laura  was  dutifully  sympathetic,  but  it  seemed  as  though 
her  own  head  cleared.  Not  ten  minutes  later,  as  she  was 
writing  her  note,  the  telephone  bell  rang,  and  she  answered  it, 
to  hear  her  father's  voice,  explaining  that  he  could  not  get 
away  that  afternoon,  would  not  be  back  to  lunch:  some 
sudden  inspection,  some  royalty  or  other  visiting  the  Academy. 
Sir  Harry  barked  through  the  telephone  as  he  had  been 
used  to  bark  at  his  men  upon  parade,  so  that  it  was  difficult 
to  catch  his  exact  words,  but  the  substance  was  clear 
enough:  he  would  be  detained  at  Woolwich  until  late  that 
evening. 

Laura,  beginning  to  feel  a  little  awed,  went  slowly  up- 
stairs, changed  her  skirt  and  blouse  for  a  pale  creamy-tinted 
tussore  frock,  taking  down  her  hair,  doing  it  afresh,  brushing 
it  until  it  shone,  powdering  her  face  with  some  new  sweet- 
scented  powder,  donning  a  broad-brimmed  hat  of  dark  brown 
satin-like  straw,  brown  suede  shoes,  silk  stockings,  and  laying 


LAURA  CREICHTON  83 

out  a  pair  of  long,  soft,  cream  suede  gloves  on  the  bed  beside 
her  parasol  and  bag. 

She  went  through  it  all  slowly,  with  that  sense  of  solemnity 
which  some  young,  pure-souled  acolyte  might  bring  to  his  first 
service  of  High  Mass;  a  sort  of  holy  joy,  not  unmixed  with 
fear,  for  what  was  that  about  the  devil  taking  care  of  his  own? 

It  was  almost  uncanny,  the  way  in  which  her  father  and 
mother  had  been  smoothed  aside,  like  a  sort  of  domestic  Red 
Sea,  through  which  she  saw  herself  crossing  over  to  the  land 
of  her  desire. 

"  It  ain't  not  lucky  when  things  seem  to  come  too  easy  " — 
that's  what  Parker  had  said,  in  recounting  the  climax  of  her 
last  love  affair;  realising  that  Miss  Laura,  for  all  her  quiet 
ways,  was  the  only  one  of  her  master's  family  who  looked 
upon  her  as  being  quite  human. 

Anyhow,  there  was  still  Marjorie  to  be  disposed  of,  and 
she  was  superstitious  enough  to  be  relieved  at  the  prospect  of 
this  snag  in  her  miraculously  smoothed  passage. 

Then  Marjorie  came  into  the  house,  banging  the  doors, 
Shouting,  "  Laura — La-a-ura ! " 

Someone  spoke  to  her,  and  she  muttered,  "Oh,  all  right!" 
— Laura's  door  was  open  and  she  heard  her  adding,  "  Always 
one  damned  thing  or  another ! " — as  she  surged  into  her  sister's 
room. 

"  Why  in  the  world  couldn't  some  of  you  have  told  me  it's 
not  the  fifteenth?  Next  Friday's  the  fifteenth!" 

"  I  never  said  it  was  or  it  wasn't."  Laura  turned  towards 
her  dressing-table,  polishing  her  nails,  speaking  coolly,  where 
a  month  ago  she  would  have  been  apologetic  over  what  was, 
after  all,  no  fault  of  hers. 

"  Well,  you  always  know  those  sort  of  things — stuffy  things 
like  dates.  I  do  think  you  might  have  told  me!  Letting  me 
make  a  fool  of  myself  like  that,  telling  them  all — silly,  gig- 
gling idiots! — that  I  was  going  to  tea  at  Rumpelmayer's ; 
setting  them  all  off  with  their  inane  cackle.  I'm  sure  I  don't 
know  why  I'm  a  schoolgirl— I  hate  schoolgirls!" 

Marjorie's  face  was  crimson;  she  looked  all  puffed  up, 
her  good  looks,  depending  on  audacity  and  self-satisfaction, 
temporarily  obliterated. 

Laura  could  catch  their  double  reflection  in  the  looking- 
glass,  and  a  sense  of  surprised  pleasure  in  her  own  appearance 
swept  over  her.  Why  did  Marjorie's  neck  always  seem  to  get 
shorter  than  ever  when  she  was  angry?  she  wondered,  and  was 
immediately  overcome  by  a  sort  of  panic  of  loneliness  and 


84  LAURA  CREICHTON 

self-reproach.  Pushing  her  own  people  aside  like  this,  willing 
them — yes,  that  was  it,  willing  them — not  to  come  to  town; 
criticising  them  like — well,  like  a  cat — what  would  it  all  come 
to! 

"  I'm  so  sorry,  old  thing.  Of  course,  it's  the  eighth — but 
I  didn't  know." 

"Didn't  know?  Of  course  you  knew!  What's  the  good 
of  swankling  like  that — pretending  you've  been  out  for  ages? 
You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  the  mid-term  holiday's  on  the 
fifteenth." 

"I  like  that!     When  you  forget,  yourself!" 

"I  didn't  forget  it  was  on  the  fifteenth,  stupid!  I  thought 
this  was  the  fifteenth.  I  can't  make  out  what's  come  over  you 
lately,  Lolly.  I  never  knew  anyone  so  beastly  selfish.  I 

say "  She  broke  off,  staring  as  though  she  suddenly 

realised  her  sister  as  something  apart  from  a  mere  shying-post 
— angry,  puzzled,  almost  awed.  Laura  was  really  grown  up; 
had  a  sort  of  style,  too — oh,  altogether  different! 

"What  an  awful  swell  you  are.  Humph!  I  suppose  that's 
for  tea  at  Rumpelmayer's — cream  cakes  and  all.  Pretty  rotten 
for  me,  when  it  was  me  who  put  my  foot  down  on  that  beastly 
old  Army  and  Navy." 

"  I  shan't  go  to  Rumpelmayer's.  Dad's  not  coming,  can't 
get  away,  and  mother's  got  a  headache." 

"Oh,  well,  then,  it  doesn't  matter  so  much;  if  you're  going 
alone,  just  for  your  lesson,  just " 

She  broke  off,  staring  again:  her  good  humour  somewhat 
restored  by  a  greedy  curiosity,  her  blue  eyes  hard  and  shining 
as  always. 

"I  say,  Lolly,  what  is  up?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Laura's  face  was  flooded  with 
colour. 

"Well,  all  togged  up  like  that!" 

"I  thought  .  .  ."  Laura  hesitated.  "I  thought  I  might 
perhaps  ring  up  Mr.  Stratton;  he  wants  me  to  go  to  tea  on 
the  Terrace.  I  don't  know  if  I  will,  but  I  might." 

"To  tea? — on  what  terrace?"  Marjorie  was  amazingly 
dense. 

"  The  Terrace  of  the  House  of  Commons,  of  course.  Didn't 
I  say  with  Mr.  Stratton?" 

"What,  to-dav?  But — good  Lord,  mashing  old  Stratty! 
Your  very  best  rig-out!"  Marjorie  burst  into  a  loud  laugh; 
then  added,  as  a  protest  against  Laura's  new  air  of  woman- 
hood, which  was  not  swank,  but  something  far  more  difficult  to 


LAURA  CREICHTON  85 

fight  against,  "  All  the  same,  my  dear,  there'll  be  the  eyes  of  a 
row  if  you  go  to  tea  alone  with  Stratty,  antiquated  fossil  as 
he  is." 

Marjorie,  so  deeply  conventional  beneath  all  that  freedom 
of  speech,  defiant,  swaggering  manner,  was  horrified;  so 
horrified  that  Laura,  long  accustomed  to  measure  her  own 
judgment  by  others,  felt  suddenly  blurred.  If  she  could  cause 
so  much  excitement  by  the  mere  suggestion  of  going  to  tea 
alone  with  Gerald  Stratton,  who  was  almost  one  of  themselves, 
whom  they  had  known  all  their  lives,  who  was  old — as  old  as 
anything! — what  would  be  thought  if  ...  Oh,  well,  of 
what?  Of  what,  after  all,  she  had  never  intended  to  do — the 
sort  of  thing  that  people  simply  did  not  do. 

It  was  strange  how  Marjorie's  point  of  view  still  had  power 
to  disturb  her.  She  had  thought  she  was  free,  but  she  was 
not;  though,  if  she  had  realised  it,  it  was  not  Marjorie,  as  a 
unit,  but  the  fact  that  she  voiced  the  opinions  of  her  entire 
class  and  set,  was  always  shocked  at  the  things  one  ought  to 
be  shocked  at,  which  told.  True,  Marjorie  crossed  her  legs  to 
the  knee,  said  "damn"  and  "hell";  smoked  more  or  less 
openly,  snubbed  down  the  Divinity;  but  that  was  different; 
that  was  the  sort  of  thing  common  to  almost  everyone,  apart 
from  fogies,  nowadays:  but  to  know  the  wrong  people,  to  know 
them  in  the  wrong  way,  that  was  a  sort  of  sin  against  the  Holy 
Ghost,  or  that  modern  edition  of  the  Holy  Ghost — Savoir  Faire. 

Laura's  head  was  aching  in  earnest  long  before  she  reached 
Charing  Cross;  if  any  human  being  could  feel  like  a  steam 
engine  overpacked  with  fuel,  running  away  with  itself,  that 
was  how  she  felt. 

Vortonitch  was  standing  awaiting  her  just  outside  the 
ticket-collector's  barrier:  he  looked  so  cool  and  natural,  so 
kind,  with  that  sort  of  half-timidity  which  gave  her  courage, 
that  her  heart  dropped  to  its  normal  beat,  or  near  it,  at  the 
first  sight  of  him.  There  was  at  least  this  about  him,  and  it 
was  supremely  comforting:  he  was  so  different  that  he  would 
never  even  think  of  being  shocked  at  the  things  which  shocked 
those  others,  which  used  to  shock  her. 

Quite  suddenly  she  felt  as  though  she  were  out  of  her  glass 
bowl,  swimming  in  a  crystal-clear  lake  of  infinite  space. 

He  was  very  careful  with  her,  for  the  first  sight  of  her  in 
the  midst  of  that  dark,  drabbish  stream  of  people  which  flowed 
from  out  the  train,  and  passed  along  the  platform — ugly,  pre- 
occupied, making  those  odd  faces  which  distinguish,  or  rather, 
extinguish,  humanity  hurrying  either  to,  or  away  from,  a 


86  LAURA  CREICHTON 

train;  holding  itself  all  anyhow,  dragged  all  sideways  by 
bags  or  babies — showed  her  as  infinitely  precious,  and  dif- 
ferent from  anyone  else. 

What  amazing  people  these  English  were!  Imagine  a 
mother  of  any  other  nationality  allowing  a  girl  like  this  to  go 
about  alone! 

They  took  a  bus  to  Duke  Street,  where  her  singing-mistress 
had  a  room  over  a  music  shop.  He  did  not  dare  suggest  a 
taxi,  in  case  she  might  not  like  him  to  pay  for  her;  was  very 
matter-of-fact,  friendly  and  quiet. 

"  I  will  meet  you  when  you  come  out  at  four,  and  then  we 
can  have  tea  together."  Nothing  could  have  been  sillier  than 
to  make  any  sort  of  fuss  over  a  statement  as  simple  as  all  this. 
The  absence  of  fuss,  the  common  sense  of  the  whole  thing, 
swept  over  Laura  like  a  quiet  and  cooling  wave. 

She  did  not  sing  well  that  day;  but,  all  the  same,  she  sang 
with  more  feeling  than  she  had  ever  done  before.  She  had  a 
rounded  contralto;  but  what  Madame  always  said  was  that  a 
contralto  without  feeling  was  like  nothing  more  than  a  mooing 
cow;  and  she  had  been  in  despair  over  Laura  Creichton.  But 
upon  this  special  afternoon,  though  she  was  less  painstaking 
than  she  had  ever  been  before,  there  was  something  new  in 
her  voice.  So  much  so  that  Madame,  having  enquired  whether 
she  was  alone,  and  been  told  that  a  friend  had  brought  her 
from  the  station  and  would  fetch  her  again,  had  the  curiosity 
to  part  the  lace  curtain,  open  the  double  window  and  peer  out 
as  she  walked  away  by  Vortonitch's  side,  holding  herself  very 
upright. 

Madame  Caesari,  accustomed  as  she  was  to  young  people 
of  the  very  best  class,  had  caught  up  their  expletives;  and  she 
used  one  now: 

"My  'at!" 

She  had  seen  Miss  Creichton's  father  and  brother;  and 
upon  one  occasion,  Gerald  Stratton,  who  had  been  commis- 
sioned to  call  for  her;  but  nothing  could  have  well  been  more 
different  than  her  present  companion,  the  slim,  young — or  was 
it  only  youngish? — man  in  the  soft  black  felt  hat. 

"My  'at"  indeed! 

They  walked  down  Oxford  Street,  for  the  mere  pleasure 
of  walking,  breasting  the  crowds  like  waves — people,  just 
people;  ordinary  people,  so  different  and  apart  from  them- 
selves and  their  lives,  with  no  real  individuality  of  any  sort; 
for  already  Laura  had  reached  this  stage,  not  even  wondering 
whether  she  would  meet  anyone  she  knew — past  that. 


LAURA  CREICHTON  87 

They  crossed  Oxford  Circus  with  his  hand  under  her  arm. 
Perhaps  Paul  Vortonitch  had  never  felt,  never  really  been, 
quite  so  young:  forgetting  his  manifold  schemes  in  the  wonder 
of  having  anyone  so  precious,  so  unsophisticated  and  unable 
to  take  care  of  herself,  as  he  felt  sure  that  Laura  must  be, 
entrusted  to  his  care.  Supposing  she  were  to  be  run  over; 
supposing  anything,  anything  were  to  happen — that  sort  of 
thing  which  at  times  leapt  upon  him  from  out  of  the  blue? 

He  was  like  an  old  woman  at  the  crossing,  that  gay  crossing 
of  the  upper  end  of  Regent  Street,  with  the  heaped  baskets  of 
the  flower  sellers — sweet  peas,  carnations,  peonies,  roses — 
stuck  like  an  immense  bouquet  in  a  broad  grey  bosom. 

It  must  have  been  some  royalty's  birthday,  for  the  flags 
were  flying  from  the  windows  and  poles:  a  day  of  brisk,  light 
winds,  brilliant  sunshine,  all  dancing  and  shining. 

They  turned  out  of  Oxford  Street  and  down  Poland  Street, 
cut  through  a  network  of  narrow  ways  crowded  with  stalls — 
the  sort  of  London  which  Laura  Creichton  had  never  even 
dreamt  of;  and  here  Paul,  in  love  as  he  was,  showed  himself 
astute  enough,  for  where  there  could  be  no  competition  there 
must  be  difference,  taking  her  to  the  upper  room  of  a  little 
patisserie  in  Old  Compton  Street. 

It  was  very  quiet  and  very  simple:  low  basket  chairs  and  a 
few  couples  leaning  towards  each  other,  talking  over  their  tea. 

Vortonitch  ordered  chocolate  cakes  such  as  Marjorie  loved, 
but  Laura,  though  she  took  one,  sipped  her  tea,  was  unable  to 
eat;  it  seemed  as  though  she  were  so  languid  that  she  could 
scarcely  move  her  mouth;  her  limbs  sank  into  the  chair  as 
though  they  were  part  of  it,  weighted  with  an  odd  sort  of 
sweetness  which  made  her  aware  of  herself  as  she  had  never 
been  before,  and  at  the  same  time  dazed  her,  so  that  she  was 
like  a  bee  drunk  with  honey;  her  eyes  shadowed  and  mysteri- 
ous, her  face  pale,  her  lips  redder  than  usual. 

There  were  people  talking  in  the  street,  bawling  to  each 
other  across  the  narrow  way;  children's  voices,  their  laughter, 
their  quarrelsome  cries;  the  sound  of  a  barrel-organ:  but  it 
all  seemed  very  far  away^  remote  in  time  and  space,  even 
though,  when  she  spoke,  she  was  obliged  to  raise  her  voice,  so 
that  Vortonitch,  leaning  forward  towards  her,  might  catch 
what  she  said. 

Not  that  either  of  them  spoke  much;  for  even  he  seemed 
drugged  by  that  sense  of  all-enveloping  sweetness. 

At  the  end  of  one  long  silence  Laura  gave  a  deep  sigh; 
then,  when  Vortonitch  put  out  his  hands  towards  her,  palm 


88  LAURA  CREICHTON 

upward  upon  the  table,  she  laid  her  own  in  it,  while  the  colour 
drained  from  her  lips,  and  she  felt  her  face  grow  oddly  stiff, 
as  though  the  skin  were  stretched  too  tight: 

"  I  say — you — you  know,  you  are  wonderful — wonderful. 

Oh,  but  it's  all  too  wonderful — you — so  beautiful,  so 

Paul  Vortonitch,  the  ready-witted,  the  silver-tongued  hero  of 
innumerable  adventures,  was  stammering  like  a  raw  boy. 

"  Laura — Laura  ...  A  lovely  name,  with  all  those  flowing 
vowels.  .  .  .  Laura — love — my  love!  You  and  your  name 
...  so  lovely,  so  altogether  different.  If  any  other  man  .  .  . 
But  there  isn't,  there  can't  be,  there  never  could  be!" 

Beyond  that  handclasp  he  did  not  touch  her,  did  not  even 
want  to;  some  mystic  strain  in  him  was  in  the  ascendant;  if 
he  had  touched  any  part  of  her  it  would  have  been  nothing 
more  than  the  hem  of  her  gown  which  he  held  to  his  lips. 
The  one  point  about  it  all  that  was  not  quite  fresh,  altogether 
youthful,  was  his  realisation  of  the  value  of  the  moment:  the 
way  in  which,  even  now,  he  was  able  to  draw  a  little  apart 
and  savour  the  beauty  and  wonder  of  it  all;  thinking.  .  .  . 

"  I  never  would  have  believed  that  it  could  be  like  this 
again."  Then:  "Why,  it  has  never  been  like  this — never, 
never.  I  might  have  died,  and  not  known  of  it." 

It  was  the  waitress  changing  the  table-cloths  who,  at  last, 
roused  them. 

"She's  setting  the  table  for  dinner.  It  must  be  late.  I 
must  go."  Laura  took  her  hand  from  his  and  drew  on  her 
long  gloves,  with  a  sense  of  pleasure  in  their  softness.  The 
narrow  street  filled  the  low-ceilinged  room  with  shadows;  so 
that  it  seemed  like  a  person,  deeply  sympathetic,  finger  upon 
lip.  She  spoke  in  a  whisper,  dragging  out  her  syllables;  she 
must  go  home,  she  would  be  late,  but  she  did  not  greatly 
mind.  It  did  not  matter.  Nothing  would  ever  matter  again; 
it  seemed  as  though  she  and  Paul  Vortonitch  swam  in  a  pure 
ether,  where  nothing  could  touch  them;  where  all  the  ordinary 
responsibilities,  needs  of  life,  were  unknown.  For  the  life  of 
her  she  could  not  have  formulated  any  plan,  projected  her- 
self, by  so  much  as  a  glance,  into  the  future;  there  was  no 
reasoning  left  in  her;  no  definite  appreciation  of  this  as  love. 

Only  as  Paul  said  good-bye  at  Charing  Cross,  leaning  over 
the  carriage  door,  she  touched  the  back  of  his  hand  lightly 
with  one  finger. 

"And  now — what?  Oh,  but  I  must  see  you  again!" 
Quite  suddenly,  in  a  sort  of  panic,  she  realised  the  train,  the 
distance  to  Blackheath,  the  other  infinitely  greater,  almost 


LAURA  CREICHTON  89 

immeasurable  distance  between  the  man  she  loved  and  her 
own  people,  so  sure  of  her,  so  altogether  and  unchangingly 
the  same. 

"Of  course  we  shall  meet  again.  .  .  You  child!  Why, 
don't  we  belong  to  each  other?" 

"You  must  come  down  and  see  my  people." 

He  could  never  know  what  it  cost  her  even  to  put  it  into 
words.  She  was  not  ashamed  of  him,  she  was  not  even 
afraid;  but  here  was  something  sacred,  and  it  was  agony  even 
to  think  of  it  being  dragged  out  into  the  merciless  glare  of 
criticism  and  comment. 

"We  can  talk  about  that  when  I  see  you  again."  In  Vor- 
tonitch's  mind  Laura's  words  achieved  the  effect  of  a  sudden 
shake  upon  a  kaleidoscope:  the  colours  the  same,  the  pattern 
completely  altered.  Here  was  the  daughter  of  General  Sir 
Harry  Creichton,  K.C.M.G.,  R.E.,  distinguished  soldier  and 
Civil  Servant — his  to  do  as  he  liked  with.  Supposing,  only 
supposing  that  this  little  fool  went  and  spoilt  everything  by 
a  premature  exposure,  when  there  was  so  much — no  end  to 
the — information  which  he  wanted  to  get  out  of  her! 

"Friday?" — Laura  felt  the  chill,  the  odd,  subtle  change 
in  his  glance,  his  touch.  In  trying  to  be  honest,  she  had  some- 
how or  other  overshot  herself,  she  thought.  For  the  very  first 
time  in  his  company  some  of  that  old  feeling  of  inferiority, 
stupidity,  came  back  to  her,  and  she  flushed,  raised  her  chin, 
protecting  herself  with  an  air  of  pride. 

"  I  expect  my  father  will  be  coming  with  me  next  Friday,  so 

I'm  afraid "  she  was  beginning,  when  Vortonitch  broke  in, 

brushing  aside  her  fears  with  his  lover-like  dismay,  eagerness: 

"Friday!  As  if  I  could  wait  until  Friday — a  whole  week! 
Monday,  Laura;  say  Monday,  in  the  same  place,  in  Greenwich 
Park,"  he  protested,  and  they  parted  upon  that — four  o'clock 
on  Monday  afternoon. 

The  train  had  gone,  Laura  waving  to  him  from  her  carriage 
window;  he  was  giving  up  his  platform  ticket,  in  a  sort  of 
dream,  when  someone  touched  his  arm,  and  he  saw  Grobo  at 
his  side. 

"Ah,  my  dear,  I  arrived  by  that  train  in  which  your  so 
charming  friend  took  'er  departure.  I  saw  you — oh  yes,  I 
saw  you,  you  dog  you!  But  I  was  not  going  to  be  a — what 
do  you  call  it? — spoil-sport,  eh?" 

As  the  little  man,  all  smiles,  slipped  a  hand  within  his 
arm,  Vortonitch  glanced  down  at  him,  ill-temperedly  enough. 

"And  where  the  devil  have  you  been?" 


90  LAURA  CREICHTON 

"To  Woolwich;  to  Woolwich,  my  friend.  Funny  place, 
hein?  Funny  little  animals,  all  busy  making  traps  within  a 
trap — and  what  a  trap!  There  was  some  sort  of  a — er — er — 
fete,  is  it?  at  the  Academy,  where  they  fatten  up  their  young 
men  ready  for  other  nations  to  sharpen  their  teeth  upon.  As 
the  special  correspondent  of  the  Evening  Post,  I  managed  to 
get  a  place — a  very  good  place,  too;  saw  everything — every- 
body. Among  others,  the  father  of  your  most  charming  young 
friend.  Ah,  what  a  beauty,  that — a-a-ah!" 

They  were  moving  out  of  Charing  Cross  station,  and  as 
Grobo  raised  himself  upon  his  tiptoes,  blew  an  imaginary 
kiss;  the  young  lady  at  the  fruit-stall,  taking  the  salute  to 
herself,  turned  her  back  upon  them,  tossing  her  head. 

How  did  Grobo  know  that  it  was  Miss  Creichton  he  had 
been  saying  good-bye  to?  wondered  Vortonitch.  How — oh, 
how  the  devil  did  he  know  what  he  did  know?  Were  there 
some  people  like  wireless  installations,  capable  of  picking  up 
messages  from  any  direction? 

"You've  done  well,  my  friend;  very  well.  They  were 
right  to  give  you  a  free  'and.  It  is  as  I  always  told  them — 
among  the  women  you  will  be  found  of  most  use." 

Vortonitch  turned  his  head  with  a  sharp,  half -wild  jerk. 
For  some  reason,  he  himself  could  not  have  said  why,  this 
"  among  women  "  irritated  him  beyond  words. 

"  What  the "  he  began,  and  then  broke  off,  sobered  by 

the  thought  of  that  word  "them"  as  Grobo  used  it;  Grobo, 
who  was  in  constant  communication  with  powers  far  beyond 
his  own  reach;  Grobo,  who  would  have  experienced  as  small 
qualms  in  putting  a  doubtful  "comrade"  out  of  the  way  as 
anyone  else. 

"Did  you  get  any  information  from  'er,  eh,  my  friend — 
anything  definite?" 

"Not  much."  Vortonitch's  tone  was  sullen:  "One  can't 
rush  people  like  that,  you  know.  All  the  same" — with  a 
sudden  flare  of  vanity  he  was  out  with  the  very  thing  which 
a  moment  before  he  had  regarded  as  his  most  precious  and 
personal  possession — "  I  can  do  anything  I  like  with  her. 
She'd  marry  me  to-morrow,  if  I  asked  her." 

"Good,  very  good!  But  remember  this,  my  friend:  young 
girls  like  that  'ave  a  most  splendid  courage  and  pride.  If  she 
is  a  little  ashamed  of  'er — 'er  preference,  she  will  be  the  more 
likely  to  blazon  it  abroad." 

"Why  the  devil  should  she  be  ashamed?  What's  there  to 
be  ashamed  of?" 


LAURA  CREICHTON  91 

They  had  moved  into  Trafalgar  Square,  were  standing 
talking  by  one  of  the  fountains,  the  spraying  drops  multi- 
coloured and  brilliant  as  jewels  in  the  smoky  crimson  and 
gold  of  a  London  sunset,  a  sunset  like  molten  iron  with  that 
ever-present  thread  of  greyness. 

"What  the  hell  is  there  to  be  ashamed  of,  eh?"  repeated 
Vortonitch,  the  more  truculently  as  he  felt  the  other  man's 
hand  drop  from  his  arm;  a  coldness  which  was  not  altogether 
atmospheric,  the  outcome  of  a  declining  day. 

"  If  you  'ave  not  mastered  the  difference  between  classes, 
the  prejudices  of  classes  better  than  that,  you  are  of  no  use  to 
us,"  said  Grobo,  his  voice  hard  and  clear,  utterly  unlike  the 
usual  impression  which  he  gave  of  himself.  "  People  who  are 
as  stupid  as  all  that " 

"  Oh,  I  know,  I  know.  I  was  only  amusing  myself.  I 
know  as  well  as  you  do  that  directly  her  people  suspect  any- 
thing it  will  all  be  at  an  end." 

"  Unless  you  marry  'er  quickly,  and  in  secret,  yes,  yes. 
But  that  would  be  the  end  of  everything  also.  She  would  be 
too  definitely  in  your  world,  her  chances  of  information 
blocked.  You  see  that — eh,  my  friend?" 

Grobo's  tone  was  sharp,  for  he  realised  that  Vortonitch, 
leaning  forward  with  his  elbows  upon  the  parapet  of  the  pool, 
had  slipped  off  into  a  dream.  A  dream,  and  what  a  dream! 
Laura  his  wife!  That  fragrant  personality  forever  at  his  side, 
like  a  flower  in  his  buttonhole — wild  rose  or  mignonette. 

"Things  are  beginning  to  move  at  last — at  last!  In 

Bucharest,  a  fortnight  ago;  and  in  another  fortnight  in " 

Grobo  veered,  with  a  scarcely  perceptible  pause,  though  even 
thus,  through  all  his  dreaming,  Vortonitch  realised  a  new  doubt 
of  himself,  a  drawing  back  from  the  statement  of  any  definite 
locality — "  in  another  place.  There  is  nothing  that  gets  upon 
people's  nerves  like  an  ordered  reiteration;  with  a  long  pause 
between  each  catastrophe.  That  alone  showed  master  minds 
— our  minds — at  the  back  of  those  week-end  murders  in  Ire- 
land: it  is  like  waiting  for  a  gun  to  go  off.  'Ere  we  'ad  in- 
tended to  'ave  one  great  crash,  out  of  the  blue,  so  to  say " 

Grobo  was  talking  with  no  trace  of  foreign  intonation;  any 
native-born  Britisher  might  have  dropped  his  h's  in  just  that 
fashion.  "But  they  feel  now,  an'  they  'ave  reason,  that  this 
is  not  the  best  way;  people  are  stunned  and  knocked  silly, 
and  then  they  forget.  The  best  is  this — to  work  on  their 
sensibilities  by  a  series  of  blows,  not  too  close  together,  so  that 
they  are  kept  at  a  strain,  growing  ever  worse,  between  each — 


92  LAURA  CREICHTON 

to  go  on  and  on  like  dripping  water,  until  the  consciousness  of 
the  'ole  world  is  like  an  'ysterical  woman  at  a  shrieking-point. 
until  every  man  suspect  'is  neighbour,  'is  brother,  'is  wife, 
until  all  security  an'  'appiness  is  lost;  until  they  are  willing 
to  put  the  blame  upon  anybody — anybody!  And  then  to 
strike,  to  seize,  to  take  what  we  want.  We,  with  the  only 
nerves  left  for  anything  definite;  we,  because  all  along  we. 
we  only,  'ave  known  what  is  'appening,  an'  what  we  want: 
seeing,  while  they  grope  in  the  darkness.  You  know  all  this, 
my  friend — yo  'ave  'eard — you  'ave  been  informed." 

"Yes,  I Vortonitch  hesitated,  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders and  turned  aside,  dabbling  in  the  water  with  his  stick. 
"Yes,  yes,  I  know  all  that." 

"That  it  is  a  settled  programme.  A  play  in  which  we 
each  'ave  our  parts:  that  even  our  mistakes  are  feints,  to  make 
'em,  as  the  children  say,  'jump' " 

"  Um."  Vortonitch  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Yes — oh 
I  suppose  it's  all  right." 

"And  it  will  start  on  Monday — you  'ave  'eard  that,  too?" 

Grobo  had  recaptured,  or  reassumed,  his  air  of  pleasant 
homeliness,  spoke  as  though  it  were  an  affair  of  the  family;  with 
his  childishly  foreign  air;  for,  as  he  said,  English  people  like 
to  know  a  foreigner  when  they  see  him,  and  thus  discount  him. 

Vortonitch    was    startled.      "Monday?      This    Monday?" 

"Ah,  nothing,  nothing — a  mere  entr'acte." 

"Monday!  But — why  the  devil ?"  Vortonitch's 

vision  was  filled  with  the  sunlit  slopes  of  Greenwich;  though 
he  did  not  see,  he  literally  felt  Laura  at  his  side;  the  slight 
movement  of  her  shoulder  as  she  breathed;  then,  quite 
suddenly,  as  it  seemed,  everything  was  wiped  out,  apart  from 
the  densely  blackened  trunks  of  the  chestnut  trees,  like  swathed 
mourners. 

"Why  not  Monday?"  Grobo's  voice  appeared  to  come 
from  very  far  away,  but  for  all  that  it  steadied  him. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  No  reason,  I  expect  .  .  ."  He 
realised  that  it  was  best  to  be  perfectly  honest;  in  any  case, 
Grobo  knew  everything,  had  hit  upon  some  amazing  system 
of  espionage — it  was  all  like  that  rhyme  relating  to  little  fleas 
and  smaller  fleas — "  Only,  I  was  going  to  meet  that  girl  in 
Greenwich  Park  on  Monday,  and  I  do  not  want  anything 
premature  to  happen,  scare  her  off." 

"You  need  not  be  afraid  of  that;  it's  nothing  that  can 
possibly  affect  your  little  affair,  mon  ami.  And — as  for 
Woolwich,  it  is  far  away  from  there;  Woolwich,  my  dear,  we 


LAURA  CREICHTON  93 

leave  to  you,  only  work  in  the  small  as  we  do.  Woolwich! 
Do  you  think  what  it  means,  all  it  means,  eh?  Woolwich, 
to  do  as  you  like  with:  the  climax  of  our  petty  efforts.  The 
signal  for  our  great,  our  world-wide  demonstration.  Almost, 
one  might  say,  the  'ub  of  it.  It  is  what  they  call  a  test  case 
— and  it  is  more,  Paul  Vortonitch;  it  is  the  greatest  chance 
that  has  ever  yet  been  given  into  the  'ands  of  any  one  young 
man."  Grobo's  voice,  his  whole  air,  assumed  a  sudden,  a 
deep  gravity;  chubby  and  insignificant  in  actual  physique, 
he  was  capable  of  irradiating  an  atmosphere  of  portentous 
authority,  intimidating  his  underlings.  "  He  knows  too  much," 
they  said;  "and  the  devil  of  it  all  is,  one  never  knows  how 
much  he  does  know." 

"  You  'ave  done  much,  Paul  Vortonitch,  but  so  far  you  'ave 
done  nothing  which  stands  out  above  the  work  of  others; 
'ere  you  'ave  all  the  cards  in  your  'and,  and  it  is  up  to  you — 
as  you  English  so  oddly  say — to  play  them  right.  Ah,  well, 
I  must  be  going  'ome;  it  is  my  Lilee's  birthday — we  'ave  a 
little  fete.  You  will  accompany  me,  eh?" 

"  I  am  going  to  dinner." 

"Tut,  tut!  you  young  bachelors — with  your  girls  an'  your 
dinners.  We,  now,  we  old  married  men,  we  'ave  no  dinner, 
excepting  by  invitation,  an'  it  is  'igh  tea  to-night — a  super- 
'igh  tea,  with  cakes  and  twelve  leetle  candles — twelve.  I 
count  'em — count  'em — greedy — greedy  as  'ell  for  the  years 
to  pass.  All  'ollow  there,  there."  He  struck  his  breast. 
"  'Ollow  with  fear.  Praying  to  the  good  God — offering 
candles.  My  God!"  Grobo's  voice  blurred  to  a  soft,  deep 
passion.  "A  candle  for  every  breath  of  every  hour  of  the 
night  and  day  for  another  year,  if  it  were  possible;  the  'eart 
out  of  my  body  to  burn  before  'Im,  if  only " 

"If  only  what?" 

"Tut,  tut!  nothing.  But  she  is  so  pale  and  languid  and 
— one  fears,  one  fears.  Of  course  it  is  nothing — her  age,  a 
delicate  age,  that's  what  my  wife  says;  another  year  an'  we 
shall  be  safe.  But  if  only  that  year  could  pass — a-a-ah!  if 
only!"  He  gave  himself  a  little  shake,  raised  his  head  as 
though  to  jerk  himself  free  of  thought;  then  laid  his  fineer 
upon  the  other  man's  sleeve. 

"  You  see  that  fellow  there.    Be  careful  of  'im." 

Vortonitch  glanced  up,  and  gave  a  short  laugh.  "Why, 
that's  my  fat  friend — the  chap  who  followed  me  about  Wool- 
wich the  first  day.  Not  much  to  be  feared  there — shows  his 
hand  a  damned  sight  too  plainly." 


94  LAURA  CREICHTON 

"  'E  can  afford  to." 

"Stupid,  over-conspicuous,  a  man  like — a  man  like  a 
mountain." 

"'E  can  afford  it  all — all.  'E  'as  something  which  we 
'aven't  got,  you  and  I,  my  friend — an  'ole  country  at  'is  back 
— an*  don't  you  forget  it,  neither." 

That  day  of  the  music  lesson,  the  quiet  wonder-laden  hour 
which  followed  it,  was,  both  for  Vortonitch  and  Laura,  dif- 
ferent to,  rarer  than  anything  that  had  ever  come  before,  would 
ever  come  again;  for  the  hour  of  love  strikes  while  it  still 
lingers,  spellbound  upon  the  threshold,  perfect  in  unfulfilment. 

The  next  meeting  in  Greenwich  Park  was  more  like  that 
other  one,  in  the  same  place,  when  Vortonitch  had  revealed 
to  her  something  of  life  as  he  knew  it;  assured — like  all  of 
us,  clever  though  we  may  be — that  this  was  the  only  sort  of 
real  life,  the  rest  a  mirage. 

There  was  more  in  the  same  strain  this  time,  and  it  hurt 
more,  now  that  she  realised  she  loved  him,  becoming  more 
personal.  Since  they  had  parted  at  Charing  Cross  she  had 
found  time  to  think;  or,  rather,  to  try  and  think  out,  plan,  in 
her  woman's  way,  which  is,  in  such  matters,  so  much  more 
practical  and  concrete  than  a  man's,  something  of  their  future 
life  together. 

It  is  but  seldom  that  a  woman  is  content  to  love  and  be 
loved;  even  a  mistress  wishes  for  "  an  establishment,"  the 
glittering  shell  of  domesticity.  To  Laura  Creichton,  old- 
fashioned — with  that  new  old-fashionedness,  which  is  return- 
ing to  women — love  could  mean  nothing  else  than  marriage, 
children,  a  joint  home.  That  wild  streak  of  romance,  which 
fitted  her  so  oddly,  coming  down  to  her  from  some  far-away 
ancestor,  was  ready  to  risk  almost  anything  for  love,  flowing 
like  a  mountain  stream,  crystal-clear,  toward  the  object  of 
her  desire;  shredding  away  from  her — Laura,  the  diffident, 
the  timid — all  thought  of  those  differences  in  position,  out- 
look, upbringing,  so  glaringly  apparent  to  others  less  blinded 
than  herself:  a  love  essentially  primal,  smelling  of  the  Garden 
of  Eden;  a  love  which  no  touching  of  pitch  ever  would,  or 
could  defile.  But,  for  all  that,  the  nest-buildir^g  instinct  was 
there.  She  had  no  thought  of  life  without  it,  and  ip  this  lay, 
at  once,  her  strength  and  her  weajcness. 

What  steps  could  they  take  so  that  they  might  remain  in- 
dissolubly  together?  There  was  in  her  mind,  to  her  knowl- 
edge, but  one  answer  to  this  question. 

On  this  afternoon  she  put  it  into  words,  at  the  end  of 


LAURA  CREICHTON  95 

something  Vortonitch  had  been  telling  her  of  his  precarious 
youth. 

"Dreadful!— oh,  dreadful  to  think  of!  No  sort  of  real 
home,  no  anything.  If  you  were  ill — what  would  you  have 
done  if  you  were  Ul?" 

"Bite  and  worry  through."  Vortonitch's  face  stiffened, 
the  lines  deepened  at  the  memory  of  childish  illnesses,  which 
even  then  must  be  concealed  because  they  annoyed  others;  of 
parched  and  fever-ridden  nights;  an  incessant,  instinctive 
scheming  for  the  means  of  preserving  life.  "  Bite  " — the  word 
had  slipped  out,  but  that  was  it;  he  had  been  like  nothing 
so  much  as  a  miserable  little  rodent,  desperately  gnawing  to 
get  into  a  store  cupboard,  or  out  of  a  cage. 

"When  I  think  how  we  are  pampered  when  we  are  ill," 
continued  Laura,  "it  makes  me  ashamed.  I  shall  never — 
never  be  able  to  do  enough  to  make  it  all  up  to  you,  when  we 
are  married;  never!  never!  As  long  as  I  live  I  shall  feel — 
oh,  I  don't  know — all  sore  with  it.  Paul,  oh  Paul!"  Her 
love  encompassed  him,  maternal  and  oddly  material.  That 
typical  good  woman's  love,  showing  a  deep  concern  for  the 
physical  comfort  of  her  ideal  intermingling  with,  and  often 
enough  stifling,  all  rapture.  "  I  shall  have  to  learn  to  manage 
a  house,  to  cook." 

"To  manage  a  house,  to  cook!"  Good  God!  The  girl 
was  a  fool,  thought  Vortonitch:  it  was  all  he  could  do  to 
repress  a  loud,  bitter  laugh  overcome  by  contempt.  "To 
manage  a  house!"  Two  frowsty  rooms  in  Frith  Street. 
What  in  the  world  would  he  do  with  her  there,  or  anywhere, 
as  a  permanent  part  of  his  life,  all  the  glamour  gone,  stifled 
by  domesticity?  And  yet,  in  the  depths  of  his  being,  trodden 
underfoot  by  his  knowledge  of  life,  of  himself,  the  mutability 
of  all  affections,  his  capacity  for  abysmal  boredom,  there 
was  something  agonising,  straining,  weeping  tears  of  blood 
for  just  this  sureness. 

"  Even  if  we  are  too  poor  to  have  a  proper  house — like  the 
people  in  the  rhyme,  you  know: 

'  Two   old  chairs   and  half  a  candle, 
One  old  jug  without  a  handle: 
These  were  all  their  worldly  goods, 
When  they   lived  within  the  woods — ' 

poor,  poor  as  anything,"  she  went  on;  "terribly  poor,  in  the 
way  you've  told  me  of  .  .  ."  She  had  begun  half -laughingly, 
but  now  her  voice  took  on  a  sudden  depth  and  softness;  and 


96  LAURA  CREICHTON 

Vortonitch,  glancing  at  her,  saw  her  profile  cut  out  clearly 
against  the  blue  of  London  town,  passionately  grave.  "  Even 
if  we  are  starving,  we  shall  be  together;  and  it  must  make  a 
difference  to  know  that  there  is  someone  who  cares,  always 
there,  longing,  simply  longing  to  make  things  better — easier 
for  you." 

She  spoke  brokenly,  hesitatingly,  for  it  was  difficult  for 
her,  as  for  all  her  kind,  to  put  feelings  into  words. 

"Laura,  Laura,  I  worship  you!"  Vortonitch  was  shaken; 
he  knew  purity  and  sincerity  when  he  met  them,  if  only  from 
their  very  strangeness:  adoration,  wonder  rose  in  him  like  a 
wave.  "  I  can't  believe  it,  imagine  how  you  can  care  for  me. 
Laura,  if  it  wasn't  for  those  people  on  that  bench — what  do 
they  want  there? — I  should  be  kneeling  at  your  feet,  in  the 
dust — kissing  your  feet.  That's  the  proper  place  for  me, 
with  you.  I've  a  good  mind " 

He  made  an  impetuous  movement,  and  she  caught  his 
hand,  laughing,  her  eyes  bright  with  tears. 

"Paul,  Paul — you  can't — here!  Mind,  dear;  do  mind! 
There's  someone  coming  up  the  path." 

A  narrow,  winding  footway  rose  from  the  lower  slopes  of 
the  park,  steep  as  a  stair,  to  the  plateau  where  they  sat,  backed 
by  the  balls  and  domes  of  the  Observatory;  and  a  moment 
later  Philip  Henderson's  head,  in  its  round,  Military  Academy 
cap,  fronted  them,  as  closely  as  though  he  were  peering  up 
over  the  edge  of  a  table;  his  boyish  eyes  full  upon  Laura,  bent 
a  little  across  Vortonitch,  laughing,  her  hand  on  his. 

It  was  over  in  a  minute:  he  saluted  stiffly,  his  face  crim- 
son; mounted  the  bicycle  which  he  had  been  pushing  up  the 
hill,  and  rode  off  down  the  wide  drive,  without  a  word  in 
return  to  Laura's  "Why!  Hulloa,  Phil!" 

"Who  is  he?    What  will  happen  now,  if  he  saw  us?" 

"Of  course  he  saw  us,  duffer!"  Laura  was  laughing, 
flushed  and  bright-eyed.  With  a  sudden  sense  of  panic 
Vortonitch  realised  that  she  would  not  mind  who  saw  them. 
Grobo  had  been  right  there — how  right!  That  flush — it  was 
elation  and  pride,  not  shame. 

"  He  may  make  mischief  if  he  tells  your  people."  Vor- 
tonitch's  nerve  was  not  what  it  had  been,  and  a  cold  trickle 
ran  down  his  back.  If  the  whole  affair  failed,  it  was  he  who 
would  be  blamed;  with  no  question  of  fairness  or  unfairness. 
"  We  can't  afford  failures,"  that  was  what  Grobo  said. 

"I  wouldn't  mind  who  he  told;  they'll  have  to  know  some 
day.  But  he  won't  tell — Philip.  He's  not  that  sort." 


LAURA  CREICHTON  97 

Her  very  sureness  emphasised  the  gulf  between  herself  and 
her  lover.  "  Imagine  being  as  sure  as  that  of  anyone," 
thought  Vortonitch.  Then,  again,  "Are  they  like  that? — 
really  like  that?  But  of  course  he'll  tell.  He  didn't  like  it; 
I  could  see  that.  In  love  with  her  himself,  the  young  idiot — 
puppet!" 

The  high-crested  wave  upon  which  he  had  been  borne 
upwards  a  moment  or  so  earlier  dropped;  pulled  down  by  the 
strong  underflow  of  his  more  normal  self — if  anything  about 
Paul  Vortonitch,  cockpit  of  nationalities,  brilliant  and  un- 
stable intellect,  wild  desires,  despairs,  ambitions,  could  be 
described  as  normal.  For  whatever  might  be  afoot,  it  is 
certain  that  the  instincts  of  the  revolutionist,  however  wildly 
diversified,  were  paramount:  with  the  usual  admixture  of 
cunning  and  simplicity,  cowardice  and  courage. 

They  rose  now,  trampling  passion  underfoot,  steadying 
him  to  what  he  would  have  called  sanity.  There  was  no  end 
to  the  information  which  he  wished  to  extract  from  this  girl, 
no  saying  how  short  the  time  might  be,  no  limit  to  the  dangers 
of  premature  exposure. 

"Listen,  beloved.  I  cannot  go  to  your  father  and  mother, 
as  I  would  like  to  do,  and  ask  them  for  you,  with  no  definite 
means  of  supporting  a  wife  according  to  their  ideas."  He 
said,  thinking,  slightingly  enough,  "She  will  understand  that: 
the  question  of  an  income,  a  settled  home." 

Once  again,  however,  he  was  shaken  out  of  his  bitter 
cynicism,  contempt  for  all  that  Laura  Creichton  and  her  kind 
represented;  shamed  by  her  passionate  loyalty. 

"I  don't  mind  what  they  say;  it's  not  that.  They're 
dears — you'll  love  them;  oh,  you  must  love  them,  once  you 
know  them — but  they  can't  keep  us  apart.  It's  only,  I  want 
them  to  know;  I'd  be  proud  of  them  knowing."  Her  head 
was  high  on  her  slender  neck.  "Oh,  don't  you  see?  Proud 
— proud  of  you:  of  all  you've  come  through,  of —  of  your 
caring  for  me." 

"But  I  have  my  pride,  too;  you  must  see  that,  Laura. 
I  can't  go  to  them  empty-handed.  It  will  be  all  right, 
my  treasure;  but  for  a  little,  just  for  a  little  while,  we 
must  keep  it  to  ourselves.  I'm  getting  on  with  my  work; 
I  shall  really  settle  down  now,  I  have  someone  to  work  for. 
Already  I  am  doing  weekly  articles  for  several  northern 
papers;  and  I  have  an  idea  for  a  series  of  short  stories  laid 
amidst  the  great  English  enterprises  and  institutions.  The 
London  Docks,  for  instance — there's  romance  for  you,  a  fine 


98  LAURA  CREICHTON 

setting  for  a  story;  the  river,  the  salty  sea-winds,  the  strange 
ships,  the  intermingling  of  exotic  nationalities."  He  spoke 
quickly,  preparing  a  way,  and  yet  scarcely  able  to  bear  the 
delay  in  reaching  his  point.  "The  Manchester  Ship  Canal; 
the  cotton-spinning  industry.  Why,  even  here — I  thought 
the  other  day,  that  day  I  was  so  thrice-blessedly  lost,  found — 
here  in  Greenwich,  Blackheath,  Woolwich — above  all,  Wool- 
wich— what  romance!  That  young  soldier,  now,  the  one  who 
touched  his  cap  to  you;  others  like  him — romance!  All  that 
vast  Arsenal,  men  and  weapons,  of  the  very  fabric  of  romance 
— love  and  war." 

"  And  us  two  here — up  above  it  all,  sort  of  throned," 
murmured  Laura  softly. 

"  Olympians,  true  Olympians !  Why,  the  whole  thing : 
this  hillside,  the  green  park;  below  us  the  chevaux-de-frise 
of  war:  Naval  College,  Military  College,  Arsenal,  Shipyard — 
romance!  With  everywhere,  running  through  it  all,  youth 
and  love." 

"Not  one  story!"  Laura's  eyes  were  glowing.  "Any 
amount  of  stories." 

"The  difficulty  is  that  there  are  details  I  would  have  to 
know — all  sorts  of  little  commonplace  things:  the  sort  of 
work  the  different  sorts  of  people  do;  the  hours;  the  local- 
ities. Why,  I  hardly  know  the  real  meaning  of  that  word 
Arsenal.  It's  there  where  I  am  stuck — not  being  English; 
but  the  romance — 'The  Romance  of  an  Arsenal.'  Think  of 
it,  Laura.  Only  the  details  .  .  .  Beloved,  you  can  have  no 
idea  how  ignorant  I  am  regarding  all  technical  things  in  your 
language.  Coming  down  in  the  train  to-day,  there  were  men 
talking,  rough,  common  men,  but  talking  Greek — Greek  so  far 
as  I  was  concerned.  Laura,  you,  you  of  all  people — what 
are  you  thinking  of  to  ally  yourself  with  a  common  ass! 
'T.  and  T.,'  now — that  was  one  of  the  subjects.  In  the  name 
of  all  the  saints,  dear  one" — he  laughed,  spreading  out  his 
hands  with  a  deprecating  gesture — "have  pity  on  my  ignor- 
ance and  tell  me.  What  on  earth  is  T.  and  T.? 

"Not  T.  and  T.!"  she  laughed.  "T.N.T.  It's  nothing 
— only  a  stupid  sort  of  explosive — one  of  the  explosives.  Of 
course,  I'm  always  hearing  about  those  sort  of  things — dad 
and  his  friends  talking.  Paul  dear,  I've  no  sort  of  brain  or 
imagination,  but  I  could  help  you  there,  I'm  sure — I'm  sure 
I  could." 

"One  wants  so  much — more  than  one  ever  puts  in — to 
give  the  effect  of  reality.  The  story,  that's  easy  enough,  but 


LAURA  CREICHTON  99 

the  rest,  the  mise-en-scene.  .  .  .  Supposing,  now,  that  we  had 
the  hero  and  the  villain  struggling  together  for — oh,  what? 
Let  us  say,  a  bomb  fabricated  with  your  precious  Tee  En  Tee, 

eh?  How — where No,  no,  it's  beyond  me.  Then,  how 

much  should  I  want  of  the  what  you  call  it — the  geography 
of  the  place;  where  things  are  obtainable,  how  it  would  be 
possible  for  my  villain  to  get  at  them." 

"  Of  course,  there's  an  awful  lot  we  never  know — no  one 
outside,  no  one  but  dad,  and  perhaps  one  or  two  others;  not 
even  the  people  that  are  working  there,  not  as  a  whole,  because 
of  the  fear  of  Nihilists  and  people  of  that  sort,  you  see.  But 
there  are  lots  of  other  things  that  would  fit  into  a  story;  I'm 
sure  they  would." 

"Well,  now,  that  long  blank  wall,  for  instance,  like  an 
eyebrow,  frowning.  What's  that?"  Vortonitch  pointed.  Of 
course  Laura  knew  what  lay  behind  this:  that  other  one,  too, 
and  the  squat  towers:  there  was  much  with  which  she  was  so 
familiar  that  she  had  forgotten  it  until  Vortonitch  provoked 
laughter  and  corrections  with  his  ridiculous  blunders;  the 
preposterous  questions  he  asked. 

"We  must  make  it  as  melodramatic  as  possible;  that's 
what  they  like — melodrama,  and  plenty  of  it.  Love  and 
horror." 

"  Things  did  happen  " — Laura  was  all  eagerness  to  help — 
"in  the  war,  you  know:  worse  than  any  book.  That  awful 
explosion  at  Silvertown,  you  know.  It  all  seems  so  far  away 
now,  in  the  face  of  this  .  .  ." 

She  indicated  the  plains  beneath  them;  the  hem  of  a  toy 
town  done  out  in  shot  grey  and  blue,  like  an  embroidered 
border  to  a  woman's  veil,  run  through  by  the  silver  thread  of 
the  river;  infinitely  peaceful. 

"  So  different,  so  awfully  difficult  to  believe. — Why,  it 
might  have  been  the  end  of  the  world.  I  was  only  a  kid,  but 
but  ...  Paul,  what's  that?  Paul!" 

She  caught  his  arm  as,  like  an  amazing  commentary  on 
her  words,  a  heavy  explosion  shook  down  the  river  from  the 
west,  echoing  from  hill  to  hill — Highgate,  Hampstead,  Green- 
wich and  Forest  Hill. 

Vortonitch,  turning  towards  Laura,  seeing  past  her,  had 
caught  sight  of  the  smoke  but  one  moment  before  the  roar 
struck  upon  his  ears.  So  that  was  what  Grobo  had  meant — 
but  where?  where?  His  brain  played  like  lightning  to  and 
fro  over  the  works  of  public  utility  which  lay  in  that  direction: 
electric  power?  water?  But  no;  they  were  out  to  impress 


100  LAURA  CREICHTON 

the  popular  mind  by  concentrating  upon  what  was  connected 
with  military  and  government  institutions  alone,  letting  the 
people's  ordinary  sources  of  comfort  be — for  the  present,  at 
least. 

"What  is  it?  What  .  .  .  Oh,  just  as  we  are  talking  of 
the  war,  of  Silvertown.  What,  oh  Paul,  what  can  it  be?" 

Laura  was  on  her  feet,  tense  and  straining;  very  upright, 
the  tips  of  the  fingers  of  one  hand  just  touching  the  back  of 
the  seat,  the  other  curved  above  her  eyes.  She  was  dressed 
in  a  smoke-blue  knitted  jumper  and  narrow  skirt  showing  the 
lines  of  her  figure;  there  was  something  veil-like  about  her 
hat,  which  floated  backwards,  in  the  light  lap  of  air.  There, 
on  that  plateau,  erect,  transfixed,  she  was,  to  Paul  Vortonitch's 
eye,  more  like  some  symbolical  figure  of  Victory  than  the 
credulous,  loving  girl  whom  he  was  engaged  in  winding 
around  his  little  finger:  he  could  almost  see  the  curve  of  great 
wings  springing  from  the  strong  young  shoulders.  Was  this 
the  way  in  which  she  faced  surprise  and  danger:  one  of  the 
amazing  ways  of  this  amazing  race  of  Englishwomen? 

"Blasting,  or  something  of  that  sort,"  he  said;  and  then, 
as  she  turned  and  looked  at  him,  saw  that  her  face  was  like 
that  of  a  piteous  child,  her  eyes  wet  with  tears,  wide  with 
horror. 

"No,  no — not  there.  Could  it  be  ...  Paul,  how  awful 
if  it  were  the  Houses  of  Parliament! — just  there,  on  the  bend 
of  the  river  .  .  .  the  Houses  of  Parliament!" 

"  How  awful  if  it  were  the  Houses  of  Parliament."  He 
murmured  the  words  to  himself  on  the  way  home.  Well, 
well,  that  would  come;  that  was  part  of  it;  frightening 
people,  shaking  up  all  their  traditions.  A  holocaust  of 
emblems,  shrieked  and  slobbered  over  for  what  they  repre- 
sented; otherwise  unmissed,  unmournd;  a  mere  cessation  of 
windy  spasms  in  the  midriff  of  the  empire! 

"  The  Houses  of  Parliament  " — there  had  been  something 
very  like  awe  in  Laura  Creichton's  tone;  almost  as  when  she 
had  said,  "  But  there  is  a  God,"  or  spoke  of  "  The  King." 

A  survival,  that's  what  she  was;  an  exhumed  skeleton, 
the  dry  bones  of  old  conventions,  tied  together  by  red  tape, 
camouflaged  as  flesh  and  blood,  white  skin,  blue-grey  eyes, 
sweet,  full  lips,  curved — for  what?  Platitudes  or  passion? 
Who  could  tell  with  these  English! 

Vortonitch,  leaning  his  chin  in  his  hand,  his  elbow  propped 
against  the  window-frame  of  the  railway  carriage,  crowded 
with  workers  from  the  Arsenal — for  on  parting  with  Laura  he 


LAURA  CREICHTON  101 

had  walked  down  the  park  to  Greenwich  station — felt  as 
though  his  blood  were  turning  to  wine  at  the  thought  of  those 
lips,  scoff  as  he  might.  Platitudes — "the  Houses  of  Parlia- 
ment"— but,  after  all,  what  had  come  before  that? 

"I  don't  mind  what  they  say;  they  can't  keep  us  apart!" 

"Passionate  courage,"  Grobo  had  said;  strange  that  he 
should  be  able  to  realise  the  breed  like  that,  Grobo,  the 
bastard  of  nations!  Grobo  and  Laura — Laura,  lovely  and 
made  for  love.  Quite  suddenly,  longing,  like  a  wave,  swept 
over  Vortonitch.  There  was  nothing,  nothing  in  the  whole 
world  he  desired  so  much  as  Laura's  arms  about  him:  so 
that,  leaning  his  head  against  her  heart,  he  might  feel  himself 
drowned  in  quiet  ecstasy,  far,  far  away  from  the  world  and 
all  that  it  meant;  drunken  with  that  sense  of  peace  which 
she  never  failed  to  bring  to  him;  sweetly,  deliciously  drunken, 
as  a  bee  with  honey. 

The  air,  on  the  station  platforms  and  in  the  train,  was  full 
of  talk  of  the  explosion  which,  echoing  down  the  river,  had 
excited  the  workers,  already,  and  so  completely,  re-inured  to 
safety.  There  were  all  sorts  of  conflicting  rumours;  people 
gathered  in  excited  crowds  at  the  station,  talking;  but  it  was 
only  as  Vortonitch  emerged  from  Charing  Cross  station  that 
the  newspaper-boys  came  racing  along  the  Strand,  their  arms 
piled  high  with  the  still  damp  sheets,  their  posters  torn  by 
the  wind  of  their  going. 

"Terrible  explosion  in  Pimlico!" 

"Clothing  factory  blown  up!" 

"Anarchists  in  Pimlico!" 

"  Bolshevists " 

"  Sinn  Feiners " 

"Loss  of  life!" 

"Terrific  explosion!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

IT  was  close  upon  eight  o'clock — the  daylight  just  touched 
by  the  edge  of  evening,  like  a  fine  grey  veil  reaching  the  tip  of 
a  pretty  woman's  nose — as  Vortonitch  moved  through  the 
hurrying,  home-bound  throng  to  his  own  rooms,  and  sat 
awhile  by  the  open  window,  half  expecting  a  visit,  or  at  least 
some  news,  from  Grobo;  his  thoughts — with  love  and  Laura 
coming  and  going  like  a  refrain  through  them — engrossed  by 
the  affair  at  Pimlico;  wondering  who  had  been  directly 
responsible  and  how  much  damage  had  been  done:  all  this 
overweighted  by  a  feeling  as  though  he  himself  were  being 
impelled,  hurried  into  that  move  by  which  he  was  expected 
to  definitely  assert  his  own  value. 

A  little  before  nine  a  boy  brought  a  line  from  Le  Cygne 
d'Or,  signed  with  a  "  G." 

"  If  you  are  at  home,  come  and  take  a  cup  of  coffee  here 
with  me." 

A  vague  and  peaceful  enough  invitation;  or  so  it  might 
have  seemed.  In  reality,  no  invitation  at  all,  but  a  com- 
mand. Grobo  had  no  use  for  the  ordinary  amenities  of 
society,  no  use  for  society  itself;  if  he  desired  a  man's  com- 
pany it  was  because  he  thought  to  make  some  use  of  him,  as 
weapon,  tool  or  shield. 

When  Vortonitch  reached  the  cafe — and  he  did  not  hesi- 
tate— he  found  Grobo  alone  at  his  usual  table,  sipping  his 
coffee  and  chatting  to  Madame,  who  moved  away  with  a  nod 
and  smile  as  the  other  man  appeared;  for  there  was  something 
in  the  air,  she  knew  that;  it  was  part  of  her  business  to  study 
what  better  educated  people  might  have  described  as  the 
"  auras  "  of  her  customers. 

Vortonitch  ordered  a  fricassee  of  chicken,  salad,  and  a 
pint  of  wine. 

"I've  had  no  dinner,"  he  said;  and  when  Grobo  re- 
sponded, "All  the  better,"  perfectly  understood  what  he 
meant.  A  man  engaged  in  actually  eating  a  meal  strikes  the 
popular  fancy  as  less  conspirator-like  than  he  who  sips  coffee, 

102 


LAURA  CREICHTON  103 

Grobo,  realising  this,  was  yet  glad  that  it  should  be  the  other 
man  who  fortified  the  position  by  paying  for  a  repast. 

"  Eat  as  much  as  you  like,  my  dear ;  until  'e  arrives — if  'e 
does  arrive.  .  .  .  An'  'ee  will.  Those  sort  of  peoples,  they 
'ave  the  madness  for  anythings!  While  they  are  going  they 
are  magnificent;  but  'ow  to  stop  them,  that  is  the  question!" 

"Who?" 

'"Arbin." 

"Then  it  was  he?" 

"Yes.  Of  an  ordinary  man  you  would  say  'e  would  stay 
'id:  but  we  'ave  the  defects  of  our  virtues,  all  of  us.  This 
virtue  of  the  mad-bull  rush,  all  very  well;  but  dangerous 
as  ...  oh,  well,  as  all  weapons  are  dangerous." 

"And  if  he  comes  here?" 

"If  'e  comes  'ere  'e  will  come  to  make  a  row;  'e  will  be 
mad  with  fear,  passion;  an'  people  like  that  'ave  but  one  way: 
the  more  frightened  they  are  the  louder  they  squeals — until 
they  'ave  time  to  think  what  they  are  doing;  then  they  think 
of  themselves.  We  must  get  'im  away  to  your  room;  keep 
'im  quiet;  show  'im  'ow  it  is  all  to  'is  doin';  but  if  'e  'old 
'is  mouth  shut,  no  one  will  know  nothing.  See?" 

"  If  you  think  that  there  is  going  to  be  a  row,  why  are  you 
here?  The  first  place  where  he'll  look  for  you " 

"If  there's  going  to  be  a  row,  it  'ud  best  fall  on  me;  for, 
mark  you,  if  'e  comes  'ere  like  that  to  talk,  talk  'e  will, 
any'ow,  to  anyone.  An'  we  can  .  .  .  Ah!" 

There  was  a  stir  at  the  swing-door  leading  from  the  narrow 
passage  to  the  dining-room:  that  sort  of  stir  which  is  more 
than  half  atmospheric,  and  yet  so  distinct  that  the  two  or 
three  customers  still  seated  there  glanced  up  as  sharply  as 
though  they  had  heard  their  own  names. 

Harbin  was  in  the  doorway,  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his 
head,  his  face  ashy,  his  tie  up  under  one  ear.  As  a  waiter 
tried  to  pass  with  a  loaded  tray  in  his  hand,  he  jerked  one 
elbow,  savagely  dashing  it  aside. 

There  was  a  clatter  of  falling  dishes,  a  rain  of  hoarse 
expletives,  everyone  agape.  The  next  moment  he  caught  sight 
of  Grobo  hurrying  to  meet  him,  and  shouted:  "Look  here, 
you — you!  .  .  .  My  God,  what  do  you  think?  .  .  ." 

He  was  plunging  forward  when  they  collided,  and  Grobo 
caught  him  by  one  hand,  pumping  it  up  and  down,  Vortonitch 
by  the  other;  both  alike — though  Vortonitch  had  never  so 
much  as  set  eyes  upon  him  before — flooding  him  with  words, 
pressing  him  under  with  a  stream  of  exuberant  welcome. 


104  LAURA  CREICHTON 

"My  dear  fellow — at  last,  at  last!  I  am  so  delighted — 
dee-lighted!  Afraid  that  you  were  not  coming.  All  waiting 
— disconsolate!  Upon  my  word,  disconsolate!  .  .  .  Yes,  all 
waitin',  our  leetle  party.  My  friend  'ere — your  other 
friends." 

There  was  force  in  the  pressure  of  Grobo's  ball-like  body 
impelling  him  towards  the  door;  Vortonitch,  himself,  was  all 
wire-like  muscle,  so  that  somehow  or  other,  between  them, 
they  had  Harbin  out  of  the  restaurant  and  into  a  taxi.  Vor- 
tonitch's  lodging  was  not  five  minutes'  walk  away,  but  they 
did  not  dare  to  risk  the  open  street,  with  Harbin  like  this, 
utterly  disorganised:  questions,  ejaculations,  sobs,  streaming 
from  him. 

"Whimpering"  is  an  expression  which  we  apply  to  a 
complaint  uttered  half  under  the  breath;  but  there  is  no 
other  word  for  it:  Harbin  whimpered  aloud  at  the  top  of  his 
voice. 

"  What  the  hell  was  it?  Oh,  my  God,  what  was  it? 
What  did  you  give  me?  Awful,  awful!  .  .  .  Why — why  .  .  . 
Oh,  my  God,  if  you'd  seen  it!  What  happened?  What 
...  Oh!  Oh!" 

"Be  quiet,  can't  you?"  Grobo  pressed  close  against  him, 
for  they  were  all  on  the  same  side  of  the  taxi,  felt  him  torn 
with  shudders. 

"Oh!  Oh,  Christ!  What  happened?  I  ask  myself  that, 
but  I  know,  I  tell  you — know.  He  must  have  touched  the 
electric  button — that  fellow,  that  fool,  that  damned  fool! 
.  .  .  He  had  no  right  there,  of  course,  he'd  no  right  there— 
but  you  told  me.  Even  then  I  would  have  stopped  him, 
though  I  thought — God's  my  witness,  that's  what  I  thought 
...  A  'joke' — you  said;  that's  what  you  said;  but  I  was 
at  the  farthest  end  of  the  building.  And  even  now — what 
was  it?  How  could  I  know  what  it  was?  What  were  you 
up  to?  Look  here,  now,  what  were  you  up  to?  Why  .  .  . 
Oh,  I  don't  know,  I  don't  know  ...  I  can't  think.  But  you, 
you — a  devil — a  foreign  devil !  No  one  but  a  devil " 

"Be  quiet,  I  say!"  muttered  Vortonitch  uselessly;  for  it 
would  have  been  impossible  to  silence  him  without  loosing 
their  hold  to  put  a  hand  across  his  mouth. 

"  I  fixed  the  bloody  thing.  Why,  it  all  might  have  been 
anything — it  mightn't  have  been  that  at  all.  You  told  me — 
you  told  me  yourself.  I  defy  you  to  say  you  didn't.  ...  A 
squib — a  squib,  that's  what  you  said!  Damn  you,  that's 
what  you  said!" 


LAURA  CREICHTON  105 

"A  squib — yes,  a  squib.  He  made  it  too  strong,  that's 
all." 

"A  squib!  A  squib!"  Harbin  broke  into  a  sort  of 
laugh — whinny  or  squeal.  "  I  tell  you  those  bombs,  those 
German  bombs — nothing  to  it,  nothing!  Hell! — that's  what 
it  was.  A  hundred  people — more — not  one-half  known  yet — 
even  yet!  .  .  .  Carried  out  in  ambulances,  done  up  in  sheets 
— bits  of  them — fellows  running  after  the  stretchers  with 
more  bits!  Men  an'  women — do  you  hear  that?  Women! 
Torn  flesh  .  .  .  U-ugh!  Blood  on  the  broken  walls,  all  the 
whitewash  spattered!  Blood!" 

"Be  quiet!" 

"Blood  everywhere — everywhere,  I  tell  you!"  Harbin's 
voice  rose  to  a  scream.  "A  shambles!  What  will  they  do 
now?  Government  property  an'  all.  .  .  .  Compensation, 
everything — the  devil  to  pay!  What  will  they  do  to  me? 
me!  An'  the  crowds — did  you  see  the  crowds?  The  whole 
place  black  with  'em,  sorter  murmuring  like  the  sea.  And 
you — you,  you  foreign  devils !  What  in  the  name  of  God  .  .  . ! 
You  said  .  .  .  Oh,  you  said — you  know  you  did,  you  know, 
you  did,  you  know " 

"Be  quiet,  can't  you!" 

"Quiet!  Who  the  hell  could  be  quiet?  There  ain't 
any  quiet  left  in  the  world — never  will  be.  You'd  not  be 
quiet  if  you'd  heard  'em  scream,  the  way  I  did.  Scream! 
Scream!  You'd  not  'a  been  eating  dinner  there — never  eat 
again,  as  long  as  you  ever  lived.  I  can  hear  it  now — I  can 
hear  it  now,  if  ever  .  .  .  A-h-h-h-h!" 

A  taxi  ran  past  them  with  a  shrill  hoot,  and  he  jerked, 
stiffened  like  a  man  seized  with  tetanus;  his  head  thrown 
back. 

"Keep  still,  can't  you!  Confound  you,  keep  still!" 
Grobo  and  Vortonitch  were  at  their  wits'  end  to  hold  him; 
their  fingers  biting  into  the  flesh  of  his  arm;  for  it  seemed  at 
though  he  had  no  feeling  left,  entranced  with  horror. 

Once  more  his  voice  blurred,   dropped,   ran  on  and  on. 

"Those  crowds!  God,  those  crowds — awful,  awful! 
Waiting,  just  waiting!  Crowds  like  a  black  wall.  I  know 
something  of  crowds,  I  do  " — for  a  moment  his  old  aggressive 
air  re-asserted  itself — "  seen  something  of  crowds.  Why. 
they'd  tear  me  limb  from  limb  if  they  knew!  Tear  me  like 
those  others — those  .  .  .  My  God!  look  here — there  was  a 
chap's  head — snipped  off  somehow  or  other — men  fell  for- 
ward, stunned;  some  of  the  machinery  went  on  cutting, 


106  LAURA  CREICHTON 

cutting — anything;  just  cutting — a  chap's  head,  I  tell  you — 
no  body,  nothing — blown  up,  stuck  on  a  bit  o'  broken  wall, 
grinning  like  this.  Look  here  .  .  ." 

They  passed  a  lamp  as  they  drew  up;  could  see  his  mouth 
stretched,  horribly,  his  teeth — startingly  regular  and  artificial 
— bared  and  shining. 

They  got  him  out  of  the  taxi,  squealing  like  a  rabbit,  and 
somehow  or  other  Vortonitch  paid  the  fare,  with  one  knee  in 
the  small  of  his  back. 

"Got  'em  a  treat  this  time,  an'  no  mistake,"  remarked 
the  driver  genially;  while  they  thanked  their  stars  for  this 
neighbourhood,  acclimatised  to  the  strangest  scenes. 

The  house  seemed  empty;  in  any  case,  no  one  would  have 
been  greatly  surprised  at  the  noise  they  made  going  up  the 
stairs;  while  it  is  against  the  code  of  honour  of  such  places  to 
peep  from  one's  door. 

With  their  quarry  safe  in  his  own  room,  Vortonitch  locked 
the  door,  pocketed  the  key,  and  then  stood  with  his  back  to 
it;  while  Grobo  lit  the  gas,  a  bare  spluttering  jet,  for  the 
globe  had  been  broken  days  earlier  and  not  yet  replaced. 

Harbin  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  stock-still 
save  for  his  shoulders,  which  he  moved  with  a  sort  of  swagger. 

"I  give  you  fair  warning!"  he  cried.  "I  tell  you  I  give 
you  fair  warning!  I'll  go  to  the  authorities — Scotland  Yard, 
Minister  of  Works,  Prime  Minister  himself — tell  'em;  expose 
you,  you  damned  foreign  devils,  you!  Those  poor  chaps — 
awful,  awful!  But  I'll  let  'em  know — I'll  let  'em  know,  if  I 
swing  for  it!" 

"An'  that's  what  you  would  do." 

"How?  .  .  .  Why?  ...  I  ...  I  ..."  He  collapsed 
into  a  chair,  a  pricked  bubble.  "  It  wasn't  my  fault.  Who 
could  say  it  was  my  fault?  How  could  I  know?  Nothing  I 
did — nothing — perfectly  innocent!"  he  stammered,  breaking 
up  his  sentences  as  though  he  were  drunk. 

"Look  'ere,  my  friend."  Grobo's  tone  was  immensely 
impressive,  overwhelmingly  contemptuous;  standing  so  near 
to  the  poor  wretch  as  to  almost  touch  him  with  his  own 
comfortable  person,  he  shook  a  finger  in  his  face.  "  Who  was 
it  took  explosives  into  the  factory — a  bomb — eh?  Come 
now!" 

"A  squib — a  squib!"     Harbin's    voice    rose    to    a    shrill 
scream. 

"Call  it  what  you  will."  Grobo  shrugged  his  plump 
shoulders.  "All  the  same  thing.  It  was  you  took  it  there. 


LAURA  CREICHTON  107 

"  You  told  me,  you  yourself — a  squib,  to  scare  that  fellow 
— a  joke!  I  can  swear  to  that — swear  to  it!" 

"An'  who'll  believe  you?  Tell  me  that.  Who'll  believe 
you?" 

"They'll  get  hold  of  you;  they'll  realise " 

"  An'  'ow  the  'ell  will  they  get  'old  of  me?  Do  you  think 
that  I'd  stay  quietly  'ere,  for  them  to  lead  me  off  by  the  nose? 
Do  you  think  they'd  dare  to  touch  me — me,  if  I  did?  Dare, 
I  say!  Yes,  dare!  Knowing  what  you  do  know — even  you, 
pheugh!  .  .  .  That  blowing  up — bits  o'  men — do  you  think 
they'd  run  themselves  into  that  by  laying  as  much  as  an  'and 
upon  me,  or  my  friend  either?  To  go  up  like  a  rocket — 
pn-ph-ph-ut!  To  come  down  in  minces  so  that  their  own 
wives  would  not  know  them.  Do  you  think  they'd  like  that? 
Do  you  think  they'd  like  that,  eh?  These  fat  English 
policemen?" 

"I  don't  know!  I  don't  know!  Oh,  I  don't  know!" 
The  gas  was  flickering  so  that  they  seemed  to  be  cut  up  into 
wavering  folds  of  specky  light  and  darkness;  with  Harbin's 
voice  whimpering  through  it.  "How  the  devil  .  .  .  Oh,  my 
God,  my  God!  What  did  you  do  it  for?  That's  what  beats 
me."  He  had  sunk  upon  a  chair,  his  hands  to  his  head. 

"What  did  you  do  it  for?"  retorted  Grobo.  "That 
squib — to  frighten  a  man,  make  a  joke — make  to  jump  .  .  . 
Tell  me  that.  Come,  now,  Monsieur!"  Grobo's  voice  was 
gently  persuasive.  "What  reason  'ad  you?" 

"  Damn  it  all,  you  know  why  I  did  it — putting  upon  me, 
driving  me  to  it!  The  confounded  Government — setting  up 
a  fellow  like  that  over  my  head!" 

"Now,  there  you  'ave  it,  the  'ole  secret  of  it:  your  move 
as  well  as  mine.  Now,  look  'ere,  my  friend."  He  drew  a 
chair  close  to  the  shuddering  man,  laid  a  plump  hand  upon 
his  knee;  while  Vortonitch  moved  over  to  the  window  and, 
lighting  a  cigarette,  leant  against  the  frame,  observing, 
listening,  thinking;  long,  long  thoughts,  amid  which  Laura 
Creichton  came  and  went — a  fair,  sunlit  and  tree-shaded 
mirage. 

In  the  street  outside  men  were  crying  the  first  cheap  straw- 
berries of  the  season,  with  a  long-drawn  and  not  unmelodious 
note:  while  Grobo's  soft  voice  purred  on  and  on. 

"Listen  'ere,  my  friend.  If  you  was  to  go  to  the  police, 
to  the  Government,  the  King  'imself,  and  say  that  you  had 
introduced  a  too  big  squib  into  a  State  factory  because  a 
foreign  gentleman  had  told  you  to — for  a  joke — what  would 


108  LAURA  CREICHTON 

they  do?  They  would  not  believe  you.  If  they  did  believe 
you,  they  would  put  you  into  an  asylum  for  mads,  where  you 
might  knock  your  'ead  against  padded  walls,  as  you  'ave  been 
knockin'  your  'ead  against  things  all  your  life,  an'  no  one  take 
no  notice  of  you  whatever.  An'  there  is  nothing  worse  than 
that,  let  me  tell  you — to  be  taken  no  notice  of  whatsoever. 
If  ever  there  is  an  'ell  it  is  that,  for  a  man  of  your  sort.  But 
that  is  what  'ud  'appen.  An'  why?  Tell  me  that?  Be- 
cause..."  He  spoke  more  slowly,  emphasising  each  word 
with  a  gentle  tap  upon  the  other  man's  knee.  "  Because  it 
would  suit  them  that  it  should  'appen.  E-h-h — eh?  You 
ought  to  know — you  know  your  Government." 

"By  God,  yes!" 

"  An'  for  what  reason?  For  what  they  want,  eh?  You 
know  that  also — what  they  want?" 

"Yes." 

"A  scapegoat." 

"A  scapegoat — yes."  Harbin  repeated  the  words  in  a 
dulled  voice,  shaking  his  head,  still  bent  forward  upon  his 
chest,  heavily  from  side  to  side.  "Aye,  you're  right  there; 
a  scapegoat." 

"  And  who  will  'e  be?    Tell  me  that." 

The  poor  wretch,  who  had  involuntarily  caught  something 
of  a  foreign  air  from  his  visit  to  Le  Cygne  d'Or,  moved 
his  shoulder  in  a  grotesque  parody  of  a  shrug. 

"Well?"  Grobo  had  risen  and  stood  in  front  of  his 
victim,  who  gazed  up  at  him  without  speaking.  "  An'  'oo  will 
that  be,  eh?  This  scapegoat?"  he  pressed  him  cruelly. 
"  'Oo  will  it  be,  tell  me  that,  if  you  are  going  talking, 
putting  yourself  into  their  'ands,  makin'  it  all  so  easy  for 
them?" 

Still  Harbin  gazed,  without  a  word;  his  long  chin  had 
dropped,  his  bloodshot  eyes  drooped  at  the  corners.  His 
whole  aspect  was,  indeed,  that  of  a  man  who  has  been  taken 
by  the  top  of  the  head  and  dragged  violently  downwards, 
while  he  looked  years  older  than  he  had  done  eight  hours 
earlier,  shrunken  by  some  spiritual  deflation  which  bowed 
his  shoulders,  drawing  them  together,  hollowing  out  his 
chest. 

"  Can't  see  why  it  should  have  happened  to  me.  Done  my 
job — done  my  best — never  interfered  with  nobody;  and 
now  .  .  .  Oh,  my  God,  my  God!  what  am  I  to  do?  Where 

am  I  to  go?  There's  my  wife — who's  to "  He  broke 

off,  shaking  his  head  despairingly,  having,  as  Grobo  had  been 


LAURA  CREICHTON  109 

careful  to  ascertain,  a  pretty  young  wife  of  whom  he  was 
insanely  jealous. 

"You're  right  there.  Who's  to ?  The  rates,  or 

some  other  man."  Grobo  laughed  softly.  "You  go  home; 
keep  your  mouth  shut,  an'  you'll  keep  your  wife.  That's  the 
only  thing  for  you  to  do." 

"  I'd  have  no  peace " 

"Pheugh!  Who  'as  peace?  'Oo  wants  peace?  Now, 
listen  'ere,  Monsieur;  remember  this.  If  by  any  queer 
chance  you  wriggled  free  o'  the  law,  we'd  'ave  you.  Bits! 
Talk  o'  bits!"  Harbin  shuddered.  "Well,  that's  what  it 
'ud  be.  Now  then!" 

Grobo  put  out  one  hand  to  Vortonitch,  took  the  key,  then 
moved  to  the  door  and  unlocked  it. 

"What  time  do  you  go  to  work?" 

"  Eight.  That  is  to  say,  I  used  to  go  ...  I  ..." 
murmured  Harbin  confusedly. 

"Well,    mind    you're    punctual    to-morrow,    that's    all." 

"What  do  you  mean?     I " 

"This:  I  suppose  there's  something  left — more  or  less. 
Any'ow,  go  on  until  you're  discharged,  with  a  character, 
Monsieur.  And  keep  your  mouth  shut." 

"But  you  said  .  .  ."  Harbin,  with  both  hands  to  the 
arms  of  the  chair,  was  rising  to  his  feet  like  an  old  man;  his 
cheeks  had  actually  sunken;  there  were  deep  furrows  at 
either  side  of  his  mouth;  his  whole  expression  was  piteous 
and  utterly  bewildered. 

"  It  doesn't  matter  what  I  said.  You  can't  put  those 
bits  together  again,  can  you?  Nothing  can  be  done — 
whatever  you  try  to  do  will  only  make  more  trouble."  Grobo 
was  speaking  with  an  easy,  almost  fatherly  tone  and  gesture; 
but  suddenly  his  voice  hardened,  sharpened.  "  And  your  own 
life  not  worth  an  hour's  purchase.  Sudden  death  dropping 
on  you  from  nowhere,  from  anywhere — round  a  corner,  out  of 
a  doorway,  through  a  window:  a  tin  o'  meat,  a  milk-can, 
a  child's  ball — any  little  thing  like  that — phut!  A  squib,  a 
little  squib!  And  your  wife  a  widow.  Remember  what  you 
saw  to-day;  remember  that,  an'  keep  on  remembering.  An' 
now,  out  o'  this,  or  you'll  be  late  to-morrow.  A  ver-ee  good 
night,  Monsieur." 

Grobo  pointed  to  the  open  door,  and  Harbin  moved  towards 
it,  shambling — he  who  had  walked  with  such  aggressive  self- 
confidence — muttering : 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.    Me,  of  all  people 


110  LAURA  CREICHTON 

— always  standing  by  the  Government,  always — face  of 
great  .  .  ."  something  which  sounded  like  "provocation," 
as  he  moved  heavily  down  the  stairs. 

"  Hah ! "  Vortonitch,  who  had  hitherto  remained  com- 
pletely silent,  broke  into  a  short  laugh.  "Well,  I  suppose 
he'll  be  all  right  now.  You  count  on  that?" 

"I  know  it.  We  caught  'im  at  the  flood-tide;  'e'll  save 
'is  own  skin,  trust  'im  for  that!" 

"But  the  engineer? — didn't  you  say " 

"  Killed.  One  of  the  few  identified — killed  whole.  There 
is  a  Providence,  my  friend;  yes,  yes,  without  doubt  there  is  a 
Providence — of  a  sort." 

After  Grobo  had  left  him,  Vortonitch,  filled  with  an  almost 
unbearable  restlessness,  walked  over  to  Pimlico. 

It  was  a  clear  moonlit  night,  in  which  the  tall  old  houses 
bore  a  curiously  cold,  repellent  air:  as  though — standing  very 
upright,  drawn  up  to  a  ridiculous  height — they  nursed  within 
their  hearts  a  never-failing  sense  of  bitterness  at  their  own 
descent  from  the  fashionable  world.  They  were  not  what 
they  pretended,  being,  for  the  most  part,  divided  up  into 
flats,  or  let  out  in  lodgings;  but  they  would  not  give  way, 
show  themselves  in  any  degree  sociable  or  vulgarly  good- 
natured.  Not  a  soul  was  to  be  seen  gossiping  upon  the  door- 
steps; only  the  cats,  peculiarly  numerous  and  lean,  slithering 
in  and  out  of  the  area  railings,  gave  a  hint  of  anything  like 
life;  the  sort  of  things  which  might,  after  all,  be  going  on 
inside  those  discreetly-veiled  dwellings. 

Even  before  he  reached  Buckingham  Palace  Road  Vor- 
tonitch had  caught  the  acrid  scent  of  burning,  charred  wood, 
molten  metal.  Passing  through  St.  George's  Square,  Lupus 
Street,  Chichester  Street,  he  scarcely  saw  a  soul;  then,  quite 
suddenly,  he  struck  a  dense  crowd,  kept  back  by  the 
police,  standing  gorming  at  a  great  jagged  hole  in  a  high 
blank  wall,  a  glimpse,  the  merest  glimpse  of  more  broken 
walls,  shattered  chimneys. 

There  was  a  sound  of  picks  and  hammers,  showing  that 
men  were  still  busy  amid  the  ruins.  A  hospital  ambulance 
rolled  silently  out  of  the  great  gate,  opened  for  a  moment 
only,  as  Vortonitch  stood  waiting,  gorming  with  the  rest:  a 
minute  or  so  later  the  gates  swung  open  again;  but  not  so 
wide;  affording  egress  to  something  on  a  stretcher  cbVered 
in  a  sheet  and  carried  by  two  men. 

"They're  getting  them  out,"  murmured  a  voice  at  Vor- 
tonitch's  elbow  while  another  voice  remarked  that  there  was 


LAURA  CREICHTON  111 

no  knowing  how  many  more  there  might  yet  be — "hundreds 
more,  like  enough," — alive  or  dead,  imprisoned  beneath  the 
ruins. 

After  a  while  Vortonitch  moved  away,  and  strolling  into 
the  strip  of  garden  which  hems  the  river  at  the  lower  edge  of 
St.  George's  Square  leant  over  the  low  parapet. 

Here  the  smell  of  smoke  and  charred  wood  stung  the 
nostrils  sharply,  borne  upon  an  outgoing  tide  and  westerly 
wind;  while  the  moonlit  river  was  strewn  with  flecks  of 
black. 

The  crowd  before  the  factory  had  emitted  an  air  of  dense 
depression;  but  Vortonitch  himself  felt  curiously  excited: 
elated  with  his  own  superior  knowledge,  sense  of  power. 
These  sheep-like  masses,  what  did  they  know?  There  was  no 
sequence  of  any  sort  in  the  minds  of  people  like  this.  He, 
Paul  Vortonitch,  was  likely  enough  the  only  one  among  them 
all  who  realised  in  the  least  what  it  was  which  led  up  to  the 
tragedy:  let  alone,  what  it,  in  itself,  would  lead  to. 

Of  a  sudden  he  was  swept  with  a  flare  of  jealousy,  im- 
patience. Grobo  had  been  right — amazing  how  often  he  was 
right!  It  was  time,  and  more  than  time,  that  he  should 
prove  himself. 


CHAPTER  X 

THAT  night  Vortonitch's  brain  seemed  to  narrow  to  a  fine 
point.  He  knew  the  phase,  realised  the  value  of  it  amid  his 
strangely-assorted  weapons,  tools;  delighted  in  it  as  he 
delighted  in  his  other  moods,  excepting — and  in  reality 
scarcely  excepting — those  dense  blacknesses  of  despair  which 
overcame  him  from  time  to  time.  For  even  out  of  these  he 
got  some  sort  of  strange  pleasure. 

He  had  once  seen  velvet  cutters  at  work  with  their  long, 
slender,  intensely  sharp  and  glittering  knives:  this  was  the 
way  with  his  brain  at  such  times  as  these;  it  was  absolutely 
trustworthy  and  up  to  the  mark,  clear-cutting,  flying:  al- 
together delightful,  both  in  use  and  effect. 

He  found  a  means  of  penetrating  into  Woolwich  Arsenal; 
of  making  a  very  fairly  reliable  map  of  the  place;  likely 
centres  for  mischief  fixed  themselves  in  his  mind:  the  big  gun 
shop;  the  central  office;  and  the  square  in  front  of  the 
Arsenal,  black  with  men  during  the  first  part  of  the 
dinner-hour. 

It  seemed  as  though  fortune  were  determined  to  favour 
him  in  every  possible  way.  The  very  first  day  he  was 
kept  waiting  in  the  little  office  at  the  big  gate,  while 
peculiarly  bulky  and  responsible-looking  policemen  came  and 
went  without  ceasing,  unmindful  of  all  that  the  little  map  of 
the  water-cocks  to  be  used  in  case  of  fire,  hanging  in  a  frame 
by  the  door,  might  mean  to  this  gentle-faced  young  man 
studying  the  exact  method  of  cutting  off  the  supply  in  the 
event  of  any  such  consummation  of  his  hopes. 

They  appeared  indeed,  so  trustful  not  to  say  indifferent, 
that  Vortonitch  found  himself  obliged  to  struggle  without 
ceasing  against  that  danger  which  is  forever  to  hand  with 
people  of  his  temperament  and  profession:  the  danger  of  dis- 
counting one  of  the  most  effective  weapons  of  law  and  order 
as  yet  known  to  civilisation — the  British  policeman. 

There  was  already  a  man  of  their  own,  named  Boyce, 
working  among  the  high-explosives:  a  useful  enough  fellow 
in  his  own  way — it  was  through  a  friend  of  his,  a  perfectly 

112 


LAURA  CREICHTON  113 

innocent  and  credulous  officer's  servant,  that  Vortonitch  had 
obtained  his  pass — but  it  was  disappointing  to  realize  how 
little  he  could  do;  off  his  own  bat,  as  it  were. 

One  had  thought  of  all  these  departments  devoted  to  the 
manipulation  of  explosives  as  the  possible  nucleus  of  a  wide- 
spreading  inferno.  But  the  authorities,  so  extraordinarily 
wooden  in  some  things,  had  odd,  unexpected  ways  of  baulking 
a  far  finer  intelligence;  and  the  shops  devoted  to  explosives 
of  all  sorts,  so  immense,  in  the  aggregate,  were  yet,  in- 
dividually, too  small,  too  widely  separated,  for  the  production 
of  any  very  spectacular  display. 

The  central  office;  the  large  gun  shop;  the  square — 
Vortonitch's  first  impression  remained  with  him.  These 
were  the  main  spots  to  be  linked  up  by  a  series  of  more  or 
less  sporadic  explosions;  while  the  Military  Academy  and 
barracks,  the  shipyard  could  be  simultaneously  disposed  of. 
Oh  well,  it  might  not  be  so  bad,  after  all,  once  these  necessary 
links  were  established.  Men  such  as  Boyce,  and  others  like 
him,  would  lose  their  lives,  more  likely  than  not:  there  was 
no  help  for  that,  for  it  was  necessary  that  the  affair  should 
be  carried  out  during  the  populous  hours  of  daylight;  but 
then,  who  would  miss  Boyce? — an  honest  "comrade,"  but 
unenterprising — just  the  sort  of  man  to  serve  as  human  torch 
in  the  general  holocaust,  when  it  would  have  been  a 
thousand  pities  to  lose  anyone  really  brilliant. 

For  close  upon  a  month  Vortonitch  haunted  Woolwich. 
Had  he  happened  to  encounter  Laura  Creichton  at  this  time, 
she  would  have  wasted  no  second  glance  upon  the  rather 
greasy-looking  young  mechanic,  with  the  untidy  dark  mous- 
tache, and  bag  of  tools  over  one  shoulder. 

During  this  time  he  had  laboured  without  ceasing;  had 
drawn  out  innumerable  maps  and  plans,  gathering  up  thread 
after  thread,  and — like  a  bead-worker  with  his  tiny  toy  loom — 
hanging  them  with  human  lives;  introducing  three  more  of 
his  own  humbler  comrades  into  the  place,  in  various  positions; 
drawing  to  himself  new  friends  and  converts,  the  sort  of  men 
who  might  be  too  cowardly  to  kindle  a  fire,  but  would  yet 
not  lend  a  hand  to  put  it  out:  bead  after  bead — amazing  how, 
once  started,  each  one  slipped  into  place. 

All  this  while  his  brain  still  held  that  knifelike  sway  over 
the  rest  of  his  strangely-assorted  make-up — wayward  heart, 
fantastic  imagination,  abysmal  boredom.  He  was  moving 
very  slowly,  very  carefully,  as  he  could  do  when  he  chose. 
Discontent  with  the  present  conditions  of  life  was  there  to  be 


114  LAURA  CREICHTON 

worked  upon,  leading  to  those  underground  channels  of  sullen 
antagonism  so  certain  to  wreck  any  industry;  and  all  this 
without  drawing  any  special  suspicion  upon  himself.  For 
there  was  no  use  in  engineering  a  mere  series  of  explosions, 
arousing  borror,  patriotism:  the  thing  was  to  induce  that 
feeling  of  being  so  completely  fed  up  that  anything,  anything. 
which  happened  would  be  regarded  as  a  sort  of  slap  at  the 
Government,  to  "  larn  'em." 

Never  in  all  the  annals  of  English  history  had  the  time 
been  riper  for  an  attack.  Now  that  the  excitement  of  the  war 
had  passed,  the  working-classes — men  and  women  alike — were 
overcome  by  a  sick  distaste  for  the  old  monotonous  ways. 
They  had  got  into  the  step  of  war  as  a  sailor  gets  used  to  the 
motion  of  a  ship,  rolling  in  his  walk  upon  dry  land. 

The  upper  classes,  also  were  affected,  but  in  a  different 
fashion.  They  had  given  themselves  freely  enough,  worked 
as  they  had  never  worked  before,  throwing  themselves  into 
every  sort  of  scheme  for  social  service;  and  yet  nothing  of  all 
this  was  stabilised.  Those  who  had  always  been  accustomed 
to  give  of  themselves  and  their  superfluity  were  ruined:  the 
new  rich  had  no  interest  in  the  poor.  There  was  less  social 
service  than  there  had  ever  been  before ;  and  the  gulf  between 
the  classes — for  a  while  rilled  with  the  shovellings  of  political 
place-mongers,  ill-advised  Government  schemes  and  subsidies, 
with  a  good  deal  of  sentiment  but  little  real  humanity,  and 
even  less  thought,  at  the  back  of  them — gaped  dangerously 
wide. 

The  old  evils  had  scarcely  diminished,  but  the  good  there 
had  always  been  was  gone  out  of  them:  nobody  believed  in 
anybody;  truth  and  honesty  were  at  the  lowest  possible  ebb, 
and  religion  moribund. 

Never  had  society  appeared  more  completely  divided:  the 
two  sides  howling  at  each  other,  thumping  their  own  tubs. 
The  capitalist  was  a  criminal — not,  as  one  might  surely  have 
believed,  a  means  of  livelihood  for  the  men  whose  fathers  had 
not  been  provident  enough  to  put  by  the  wherewithal  for 
them  to  launch  out  upon  any  business  of  their  own.  If  they 
did  save  enough  to  start  a  shop,  or  their  wives  a  lodging-house, 
they  themselves  became  capitalists,  and  thus  suspect:  the 
feeling  was  against  inherited  wealth,  so  what  was  the  good 
of  saving,  denying  oneself  for  what  might  be  snatched  away 
from  one's  children?  Better  spend  the  money  in  the  public- 
house  than  run  any  risk  of  developing  into  anything  so  com- 
pletely "  gory  "  as  a  capitalist. 


LAURA  CREICHTON  115 

The  capitalist — and  when  does  one  begin  to  be  a  capitalist, 
cease  to  be  a  capitalist?  .  .  .  howled  back.  The  working- 
man  had  never  been  so  well  off  as  he  was  during  the  war: 
he  had  given  nothing,  suffered  nothing — not  him!  Trust 
him!  But  here  again  was  gross  unfairness;  as  though  a 
working-man  had  anything  whatever  to  give,  beyond 
his  own  body  and  the  fruit  of  his  body?  All  very  fine  and 
self-denying  to  fight  for  some  hundreds  of  acres:  parks, 
gardens,  woods,  pastures,  sporting  rights,  and  historic  homes; 
all  that  they  meant  in  pleasure,  dignity  of  position,  rent- 
roll — this  was  the  retort,  a  handy  one,  too.  But  what  price 
a  single  vermin-infested  room  in  Bethnal  Green?  What 
about  that,  eh?  The  working-man,  for  awhile  the  belauded 
Tommies,  had  hardly  thought  of  this  before  they  left;  they 
thought  of  it  when  they  got  back,  and  likely  enough  found 
even  that  much  of  "the  happy  homes  of  England"  sneaked 
away  from  them. 

What  a  ground  to  work  upon:  tilled,  trenched,  laid  open 
to  any  sort  of  outside  influence;  a  word  here,  a  word  there — 
seeds  sown,  dragon's  teeth,  rather. 

And  yet,  after  all,  what  did  the  people  want?  The 
sanest,  the  most  humane  might  well  ask  themselves  that. 

What  did  they  want?  Was  it  a  case  of  "Ask  grandam 
kingdom  and  it  grandam  will,  give  it  a  plum,  a  cherry  or  a 
fig"?  Was  their  need,  in  truth,  spiritual  rather  than 
natural?  though  they  themselves  neither  knew  nor  had  the 
wit  to  put  it  into  words,  could  think  of  nothing  beyond 
wages,  higher  and  ever  higher  wages,  as  the  panacea  for  all 
evils,  reversing  the  Testament,  needing  bread  and  asking  for 
a  stone. 

It  seemed  as  though  the  revolutionary  agitator  read 
them  better  than  they  read  themselves;  saw  further  than 
anyone  else,  as  the  dishonest  so  often  do,  in  tossing  them 
that  old  and  badly-disgraced  word — suspect  since  the  days  of 
Cain — "fraternity,"  freshly  trimmed  into  "A  Fraternal 
Soviet." 

Be  it  as  it  might  be,  nobody  was  satisfied,  at  ease  with  life. 
There  were  grievances,  real  or  fancied,  upon  every  side: 
little  sparks  all  ready  for  the  revolutionary  fan. 

Vortonitch  took  a  trip  up  to  Scotland,  and  spent  a  couple 
of  days  in  Glasgow,  for  the  sake  of  comparison. 

Here  he  found  all  ripe:  "Communists" — fused  with  the 
old  Glasgow  Anarchist  group:  "Labour,"  Proletarians," 
'  Workers'  Committees" — all  alike  appertaining  to  the 


116  LAURA  CREICHTON 

Extreme  Left,  and  using  their  brains  over  it,  too;  with  these 
three  staple  planks — Political,  Industrial  and  Educational. 

He  went  on  into  Lancashire  and  the  West  Riding;  finding, 
everywhere  alike,  unemployment  and  discontent  rife;  and  so 
into  South  Wales,  observant  of  the  work  of  the  Labour 
Colleges;  rendered  uneasy  at  this  movement,  with  its  threat 
of  teaching  men  to  think  rationally:  building  in  place  of 
snatching. 

If  revolt  went  too  far  it  might  become  too  well-ordered; 
once  let  the  working-man  find  that  he  could  walk  alone — and 
very  well,  too — and  there  would  be  an  end  of  Mr.  Paul  Vor- 
tonitch,  of  Carl  Grobo,  and  of  others  like  him:  of  all  those  at 
the  back  of  them,  of  all  the  fun  and  excitement  of  life. 

The  time  was  ripe  in  England,  absolutely  ripe;  it  must  on 
no  account  be  allowed  to  over-ripen.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
grandiose  programme  of  the  Terror  must  be  carried  out  as  a 
whole  from  the  moment  that  he,  by  his  own  effort,  gave  the 
signal.  Not  for  worlds  would  he  relinquish  that.  Only  a  few 
months  more  .  .  .  Three?  Yes,  it  could  be  managed  in  three 
— if  only  the  other  countries  were  ready,  and  he  believed  that 
they  were,  swollen  with  an  incessant  blood-transfusion  from 
Moscow. 

He  returned  to  London  between  his  Lancashire  and  South 
Wales  visits,  and  at  that  time  could  have  sworn  that  Grobo 
thought  as  he  thought  upon  the  subject  of  this  immense, 
concerted  uprising:  beginning  in  Woolwich  and  leading  to  a 
world  aflame,  quenched — if  ever — in  a  sea  of  blood.  But  was 
this  nothing  more  than  a  pose,  to  encourage  him  to  a  greater 
effort?  Ah,  well,  who  could  know,  ever  had  known,  what 
Grobo  thought  or  felt:  what  Grobo  was? 

In  any  case,  the  fact  remained  that  when  Vortonitch 
returned  from  South  Wales  he  found  that  the  policy  of  a 
series  of  smaller  acts  of  terrorism,  succeeding  each  other  at 
definite  periods,  was  still  to  be  adhered  to:  running  on  for  an 
indefinite  time.  A  constant  dropping  wearing  away  the  stone 
until,  or  so  it  seemed  to  Vortonitch,  there  would  be  nothing 
much  left  worth  smashing:  his  own  part  in  it  infinitely 
divided  and  subdivided. 

Little  wonder  that  he  was  furious,  defiant.  But  Grobo's 
position  was  impregnable,  his  commands  to  be  obeyed,  and 
Vortonitch  knew  it:  if  he  chose  to  disregard  them,  his  life 
would  be  every  bit  as  unsure  as  that  of  the  poor  wretch 
Harbin,  whose  pretty  wife  had  developed  into  a  virago  under 
the  temptation  of  such  unrecognisable  meekness  and  silence. 


LAURA  CREICHTON  117 

A  strangely-chastened  Harbin,  he  was  back  in  the  old  groove: 
an  even  less  important  position  than  the  last,  for  the  reason 
that  the  temporary,  makeshift  factory  was  so  much  smaller 
than  the  other. 

Woolwich  was  still  Vortonitch's  affair,  at  any  rate  the 
Arsenal.  The  Military  Academy,  barracks  and  dockyard  were 
to  come  later,  or  so  Grobo  said,  adding,  with  a  great  show  of 
kindness — damnably  hypocritical:  "We  mustn't  put  too 
much  on  your  shoulders  all  at  once,  my  dear  Paul.  We  'ave 
too  much  consideration  for  those  'om  we  value." 

"To  hell  with  you  and  your  consideration!  Why  the 
devil  should  I  play  second  fiddle  to  you,  to  anyone  else? 
That's  what  I  want  to  know."  Vortonitch's  fury,  impotent 
despite  all  he  might  say — for  your  revolutionist  writhes  under 
the  tyranny  of  powers,  expectations  and  obligations  unguessed 
at  by  the  ordinary  law-abiding  citizens — was  augmented  by 
a  shrewd  fear  that  they  were  ready  enough  to  use  him  in  the 
way  he  had  intended  to  use  Boyce:  as  a  housewife  uses  candle- 
ends,  in  kindling  a  greater  fire.  If  he  survived,  proved 
himself,  well  and  good;  there  was  still  a  chance  for  him  in 
the  grand  finale:  if  he  were  caught,  or  disappeared,  his  dis- 
integration— and  he  knew  Grobo's  coolness  in  respect  to  mere 
dust  and  ashes,  his  contempt  for  any  sentimentality  regarding 
the  value  of  human  life — nobody  would  be  very  much  the 
worse:  there  were  other  young  men,  a  curiously  endless 
succession  of  young  men.  The  only  difficulty  was  to  find  one 
who  could  be  counted  upon  up  to  the  higher  level  of  maturity. 
These  young  revolutionists!  They  cooled  off,  or  they  were 
too  ardent  and  got  themselves  into  trouble;  or,  else,  proving 
faithless,  it  was  found  necessary  to  help  them  to  another  and, 
we  hope,  better  world. 

Vortonitch's  position  was  anomalous;  he  was  still  so 
much  a  boy  in  everything  apart  from  years.  He  had  shown 
wonderful  courage  and  resource.  Somehow  or  other,  he  had 
managed  to  extricate  himself  from  the  most  perilous  positions 
without  the  faintest  suspicion  of  treachery.  But  for  all  this 
the  fact  remained:  he  had  done  remarkably  well  in  small 
ventures;  in  big  ventures  a  cruel  fate  had  intervened.  The 
ventures  themselves  had  been  successful  enough,  but  there  had 
been  no  real  flare  about  them;  for  the  simple  reason  that,  in 
some  way  or  other,  they  had  proved  abortive.  One  of  the 
worst  holes  in  which  he  had  ever  found  himself  was  that 
caused  by  the  ludicrous  fact  of  having  killed  the  wrong  man: 
a  person  who  was  then  engaged  in  acting  the  part  of  a  certain 


118  LAURA  CREICHTON 

well-known  Bourbon  prince,  supposedly  visiting  Rome  at  that 
time.  He  did  not  only  deceive  Vortonitch,  he  deceived  the 
police,  the  authorities,  the  Court,  the  whole  diplomatic  circle, 
and — or  so  it  was  whispered — the  Holy  Father  himself.  He 
also  deceived  Vortonitch's  comrades,  including  one  so  much 
more  highly-placed  than  himself  that  there  had  been  no 
question  of  his  risking  his  life. 

Vortonitch  had  risked  a  great  deal.  The  whole  affair  had 
been  beset  with  difficulties;  the  fury  of  the  mob,  from  which 
he  had  been  unable  to  escape,  and  who  were  as  much  deceived 
as  anyone  else,  had  put  a  mark  upon  him  for  life;  while  they 
would  assuredly  have  killed  him,  could  they  have  got  at  him  a 
second  time,  for  making  fools  of  them  by  assassinating  a 
nobody  as  though  he  had  been  a  prince. 

In  any  case,  it  seemed  as  though  he  would  have  been 
punished  according  to  his  intention,  had  he  not  made  his 
escape  during  the  process  of  his  trial;  to  the  great  relief  of 
everyone  concerned,  for  there  is  nobody  who  fills  us  with  such 
uneasiness  as  the  man  who  has,  in  any  way,  contributed 
towards  helping  us  make  fools  of  ourselves. 

All  very  well  for  them;  all  very  well  for  the  bona  fide 
Bourbon;  but  exasperatingly  bad  luck  for  Vortonitch,  more 
or  less  shrugged  aside  by  the  members  of  his  own  fraternity, 
every  bit  as  much  deluded  as  anyone  else. 

These  were  the  sort  of  things  which  happened  to  him.  He 
was  continually,  by  some  extraordinary  combination  of 
adverse  circumstances  and  not  in  the  least  through  any  fault 
of  his  own  finding  himself  too  late,  or  too  early,  in  the  wrong 
place  at  the  wrong  moment;  forced  into  the  position  of 
scapegoat  or  pushed  aside  for  someone  more  important  than 
himself.  If  it  had  not  been  for  his  courage,  his  unquenchable 
spirit,  his  gallant  air,  and  his  really  wonderful  abilities,  there 
is  no  knowing  how  he  might  have  sunk.  But  sometimes  it 
seemed  as  though  he  climbed  by  failures  which  were  not  his 
own;  "gingered,"  as  a  horsy  man  would  put  it,  to  even  more 
brilliant  efforts. 

Now,  at  last,  his  ambitions  had  seemed  likely  to  be  fulfilled, 
and  Grobo  had  squashed  them.  One  explosion  at  a  time,  a 
more  or  less  hole-and-corner  affair,  insular — almost  parochial, 
What  was  there  in  that! 


CHAPTER  XI 

IN  his  anger  and  humiliation  Paul  Vortonitch  turned  to 
Laura,  as  a  man  will  turn  from  hot  rooms,  a  crowded,  noisy 
throng  to  a  quiet  garden. 

He  had  seen  her  once  during  that  interlude  'twixt  Lanca- 
shire and  South  Wales;  and  yet,  had  not  really  seen  her,  had, 
as  it  were,  glanced  at  her  out  of  a  window — a  pretty,  sweetly 
pretty  and  enclosed  garden. 

Laura  herself,  sensitive  to  the  faintest  change  in  the 
spiritual  atmosphere,  had  realised  his  detachment,  realising 
at  the  same  time,  with  a  balance  strange  in  one  so  youthful, 
that  he  had  a  very  great  deal  to  think  of,  and  that  it  was 
impossible  she  should  always  come  first. 

They  had  sat  in  Greenwich  Park  together:  more  than  once 
Vortonitch  had  glanced  at  his  watch,  sighed,  frowned.  The 
things  he  had  loved  most  in  her — would  love  again — irked  him. 

"If  the  world  was  coming  to  the  end,  would  you  be  the 
same:  so  quiet,  so  cool — frozen  porcelain?"  he  had  said. 

Laura's  heart  was  thumping  heavily,  like  something 
completely  alien  imprisoned  within  her;  she  was  frightened, 
over-weighted  with  a  fear  of  love  and  a  fear  of  losing  love. 
But  how  could  he  know  this?  With  a  sure  instinct,  the 
instinct  of  an  affection  almost  wholly  unselfish,  she  realised 
that,  rail  as  he  might  against  her  quiet,  it  was  this  which  he 
really  needed. 

And  now  he  came  back  to  her — he  himself,  as  she  knew 
him  best,  so  oddly  her  child  and  lover;  while  she  was  so  much 
a  child  herself  that  her  love  showed  the  sort  of  solemnity  of  a 
little  girl  with  a  darling  doll. 

Directly  anything  in  life  became  really  intolerable  Vor- 
tonitch was  apt  not  so  much  to  lose  caution  as  to  fling  it  away. 

For  a  whole  day  after  that  last  scene  with  Grobo  he  hung 
about  Blackheath;  then,  as  he  caught  no  sight  of  her,  wrote 
— a  passionate  lover's  letter,  a  fatal  sort  of  letter,  supposing 
anyone  else  had  opened  it — begging  her  to  meet  him  in  town. 

There  was  no  mention  of  a  Friday,  of  waiting  for  a  Friday : 
she  must  come  the  very  next  day,  Tuesday.  She  must  come, 

119 


120  LAURA  CREICHTON 

she  must,  or  he  himself  would  put  in  an  appearance  at  her 
home  and  carry  her  away  with  him. 

"That  is  what  it  will  come  to  in  the  end,"  he  wrote,  he 
who  had  pressed  for  secrecy  and  delay.  "  It  has  already  come 
to  this — I  can't  live  without  you." 

The  letter  arrived  at  breakfast-time.  Marjorie's  hard  eyes 
moved  from  it  to  her  sister,  curious  and  staring.  But  she  was 
loyal  enough  to  ask  no  question  in  front  of  their  father  and 
mother;  and  for  the  rest  of  the  morning  Laura  was  careful  to 
keep  out  of  her  way. 

She  could  not  get  off  to  town  by  the  train  which  she  had 
caught  before,  for  she  dared  not  risk  missing  lunch,  or  ask  for 
it  earlier.  But  she  dared  this  much — marvellously,  when  one 
remembers  how  every  move  in  that  family  was  taken,  and 
freely  given  out  as  common  property — she  went,  and  without 
a  word  to  anyone. 

She  did  not  dare  to  make  any  great  change  in  her  dress,  for 
that  alone  would  have  provoked  comment,  but  directly 
luncheon  was  over,  and  Marjorie  off  to  school  again,  she  went 
upstairs  and  put  on  her  hat  and  gloves,  counting  out  the  money 
in  her  purse  with  some  trepidation. 

Coming  downstairs,  passing  through  the  hall,  her  mother 
called  to  her  from  the  drawing  room. 

"Is  that  you,  Laura?     Where  are  you  going?" 

Laura  hesitated,  for  it  seemed  as  though  her  heart  were  in 
her  throat,  stuck  there  so  that  she  could  not  speak. 

Then  the  single  word  came,  quietly  and  oddly  to  her  own 
ear — "  Out " — and  she  moved  to  the  door,  down  the  steps  and 
along  the  gravel  sweep,  walking  slowly  and  stiffly,  with  a  feel- 
ing as  though  she  were  in  a  dream. 

It  was  the  strangest  thing  that  had  ever  happened  to  her: 
this  going  to  town  and  saying  nothing  about  it,  nothing  what- 
ever. At  other  times  when  she  met  Vortonitch  she  had  made 
endless  and  agitated  plans  and  excuses  for  getting  away; 
conned  over  innumerable  reasons  for  going. 

For  the  habit  of  their  life  was  like  this:  everything  they 
did  was  put  into  words.  "  I'm  going  to  the  library  for  some 
books."  "  I'm  going  to  ask  Crackenthorpe  about  the  roses." 
"  I'm  going  to  get  some  flowers."  "  I'm  going  to  read  in  the 
garden;  then,  when  it  gets  cooler,  I'm  going  down  to  the 
village  " — to  get  this  or  that,  to  do  so-and-so,  to  see  So-and-So. 

Hitherto  it  had  been  like  this  in  her  meetings  with  Vor- 
tonitch: hating  it  all  the  time,  she  had  wrapped  herself  round 
with  a  web  of  small  deceits  which  were  not  quite  lies,  for  that 


LAURA  CREICHTON  121 

is  one  of  the  dangerous  results  of  an  intimate  and  questioning 
family  life. 

Upon  this  occasion,  however,  she  just  went.  And  without 
a  word.  Not  onto  the  Heath,  not  to  the  Park  or  Village,  but 
to  London  itself. 

All  the  way  up  in  the  train  her  thoughts  were  centred  upon 
one  question  alone:  would  he,  seeing  that  she  did  not  arrive 
by  the  expected  train,  wait  until  the  next,  as  she  had  counted 
upon  him  doing? 

"  The  only  sensible  thing  to  do  " — that  was  what  she  told 
herself;  but  did  she  really  believe  him  to  be  sensible?  No; 
it  was  she  who  was  sensible,  and  this  knowledge  was  not 
one  of  the  least  delights  of  her  love. 

She  had  heard  people  talk  of  the  artistic  temperament: 
none  of  the  Creichtons  suffered  in  this  way,  but  it  seemed  as 
though  she  had  recognised  it  at  once  as  something  very 
precious  and  calling  for  very  special  care. 

At  the  back  of  her  mind  during  this  journey  up — pressed 
back  and  kept  there  with  something  of  the  same  fear  with 
which  her  father  might  have  regarded  anything  in  the  way  of  a 
panic — was  the  dread  thought  as  to  what  might  happen 
supposing  that  he  was  not  there:  the  realisation  that  she  did 
not  even  know  his  address. 

But  she  would  not  let  herself  think  of  this;  she  simply 
would  not.  And,  after  all,  he  was  there. 

She  caught  sight  of  him  the  moment  the  train  drew  into 
the  platform,  with  an  impression  of  him  as  thinner,  whiter  than 
he  had  ever  been  before. 

It  was  plain  that  he  was  desperately  glad  to  see  her:  des- 
perately; that  was  it.  She  had  never  seen  anyone  take 
happiness  in  that  sort  of  way  before,  almost  as  though  it  were 
pain. 

They  moved  out  of  Charing  Cross  station  in  a  sort  of 
dream:  oh  yes,  Vortonitch  every  bit  as  much  as  Laura.  He 
had  been  so  angry,  so  disappointed,  that  he  felt  sapped:  there 
was  dust  and  ashes  in  his  mouth.  What  was  the  good  of 
anything — anything  beyond  this — this  girl  and  love? 

Turning  into  Trafalgar  Square,  they  sat  down  on  the 
edge  of  one  of  the  fountain-basins.  Laura  wondered,  without 
in  the  least  caring,  what  anyone  she  knew  would  think,  seeing 
her  thus:  then  remembered  that  there  were  certain  things 
which  were  completely  invisible  to  people  of  her  own  caste: 
that  she  herself  would  not  have  as  much  as  realised  the  exist- 
ence of  any  young  couple  in  such  a  posture. 


122  LAURA  CREICHTON 

It  was  still  within  the  school  hours,  and  there  were  only 
a  few  very  small  children  about;  one  or  two  paddling  in  the 
pool  next  to  them,  looking,  with  their  bunched-up  garments 
and  thin  legs,  like  diminutive  storks. 

They  were  well  away  from  the  dust;  the  roar  of  traffic 
passed  by  them  without  touching  them.  There  were  rainbow 
glints  in  the  water  of  the  fountain;  every  now  and  then,  as 
the  wind  veered,  there  was  a  spraying  shower  against  Laura's 
cheek,  her  bare  neck. 

After  a  while  they  went  up  to  what  she  had  grown  to  think 
of  as  their  "  own  cafe  "  for  tea. 

But  is  was  more  crowded  than  it  had  been  before,  and 
when  they  had  finished  Vortonitch  suggested  that  they  should 
go  to  his  rooms  for  the  half-hour  which  remained  before  Laura 
needed  to  even  think  of  catching  her  train. 

He  had  just  paid  for  the  tea,  and  they  had  both  risen,  were 
facing  each  other  over  the  little  table:  Vortonitch  flushed  and 
ardent,  Laura  grave  and  a  little  pale,  as  though  overweighted 
by  life,  the  responsibility  of  a  lover  who  from  that  tremulous 
joy  of  the  meeting,  not  an  hour  earlier,  could  so  swiftly  slip 
into  a  mood  of  boyish  gaiety,  laughing  at  everything,  full  of 
the  most  fantastic  plans  for  their  future. 

"  I  don't  think  I  ought  to  come — not  to  your  rooms,"  she 
said,  her  candid  eyes  on  his;  consulting  him,  of  all  people,  the 
ridiculous  creature!  The  lamb  consulting  the  wolf. 

And  yet,  how  very  far  he  was  from  being  all  wolf;  for — 
"  I  don't  suppose  you  ought,"  he  answered,  very  soberly. 

But  his  high  spirits  had  dropped  again;  he  was  pathetically 
miserable,  had  actually  paled  in  that  moment. 

"But,  after  all  ...  with  you  .  .  ."  demurred  Laura 
pitifully;  and  once  more  it  was  much  the  same  as  that  after- 
noon they  first  met,  when  he  had  struck  her  as  being  like  a 
puppy  a  little  afraid  of  wagging  its  tail.  "  I  would  like  to  see 
where  you  live;  I  must  know  where  you  live.  I  thought  this 
afternoon,  on  the  way  up,  what  would  happen  if  we  missed 
each  other — if  you  were  ill,  or  anything." 

"  Only  for  a  few  minutes,  a  few  minutes  alone  to  our- 
selves." Vortonitch  hesitated,  looking  at  her  almost  timidly. 

"Yes,  it  can't  be  long,  because  of  my  train.  Come  now; 
let's  go."  Laura  spoke  with  decision;  for,  after  all,  she 
trusted  him,  and  as  for  doing  what  the  rest  of  her  world  would 
have  said  that  she  oughtn't  to  do,  what  about  meeting  him 
here — meeting  him  at  all — ever  having  spoken  to  him?  Be- 
sides, one  had  no  business  to  be  afraid,  of  anything,  of  any- 


LAURA  CREICHTON  123 

body.  As  to  being  afraid  of  Paul  .  .  .  "The  kid!"  she 
thought,  feeling  old  and  very  tender. 

For  all  that,  anything  in  the  way  of  a  grand  apartment 
might  have  frightened  her;  but  it  was  such  a  dreary,  untidy 
little  room  into  which  Vortonitch  ushered  her  that  all  other 
thought  was  lost  in  pity. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  had  never  seen  anything  quite  like 
it;  the  nearest  approach  being  an  occasional  glimpse  of  the 
landlady's  private  sitting-room  when,  staying  with  her  family 
in  seaside  lodgings,  she  had  penetrated  to  the  basement  to  ask 
for  something  or  other;  for  Vortonitch's  quarters  had  the 
same  stale,  flat  smell,  gas  and  cabbage  and  damp  linoleum. 

A  sort  of  delicacy  prevented  her  from  giving  more  than  a 
single  glance  around  her;  but  before  she  sat  down  she  realised 
a  door  ajar  into  another  room,  the  glimpse  of  a  still  unmade 
bed. 

Vortonitch  was  pale  again  now,  and  she  was  filled  with  an 
almost  unbearable  sense  of  yearning  pity,  remembering  the 
freshness,  the  spaciousness,  the  perfect  order  of  her  own  home. 

If  he  could  come  down  there  and  see  them  all ;  if  her  people 
liked  him,  as  they  must  do — already,  when  they  were  together 
she  forgot  his  variation  from  the  familiar  type — and  invited 
him  to  stay  for  a  week  or  two,  so  that  he  might  be  well  fed  up, 
live  in  the  open  air  for  awhile,  how  much  good  it  would  do 
him!  Her  mother  had  rather  a  taste  for  such  cosseting. 
Many  a  young  officer,  or  lad  from  the  Military  Academy,  had 
convalesced  there.  He  could  bring  his  work  with  him,  write 
in  the  garden  .  .  .  Oh,  but  it  would  be  perfect! 

She  had  dropped  into  the  chair  by  the  open  window,  and 
taken  off  her  hat.  The  street  was  so  narrow  that  the  room 
was  already  dim,  with  its  own  dulness,  the  shadow  of  the  tall 
houses  opposite,  and  her  smooth  fair  head  hung  like  a  small 
golden  moon  in  the  midst  of  it.  Vortonitch,  kneeling  at  her 
side,  leaning  his  head  against  her  shoulder,  was  filled  with 
delight  at  the  clean,  fresh  scent  of  her;  it  was  all  so  like  the 
country,  rus  in  urbe — a  clover-field  hedged  round  with  wild 
roses. 

When  she  spoke  of  her  plans,  that  he  should  come  down 
and  make  friends  with  her  people;  perhaps — more  than  likely 
— be  asked  to  stay  there,  he  negatived  them;  but  without 
contempt,  so  gently  that  she  pressed  him  further. 

"Paul,  you're  not  well;  you  ought  to  get  away  for  a  bit. 
There's  not  enough  air  here — at  least,  not  in  the  summer," 
she  added,  afraid  of  hurting  his  feelings,  belittling  what  was, 


124  LAURA  CREICHTON 

after  all,  his  home,  "  In  the  winter  I  expect  it  would  be 
awfully  jolly,  cosy  with  a  nice  fire  and  all;  but  I'm  sure  it 
would  do  you  no  end  of  good  to  have  a  change.  Of  course 
Blackheath's  not  very  far,  but  it's  different." 

It  was  different:  could  anything  be  more  different?  The 
wind,  setting  up  the  narrow  street,  filled  it  with  dust,  scraps 
of  paper  and  straw;  there  was  a  barrel-organ  playing  beneath 
the  window,  a  continual  tumult  of  shouting,  laughter,  loud, 
raucous  voices,  children  playing  and  squabbling. 

"A  clover  field!"  He  remembered  some  of  the  fields 
in  the  country  around  Dieppe — miles  upon  miles  of  clover. 
She  was  so  English,  and  yet  that  was  what  she  reminded 
him  of;  for  he  had  never  seen  quite  so  much  clover,  and  of  so 
rich  a  bloom,  in  England. 

"  You'd  get  all  sorts  of  details  for  your  stories.  There  are 
all  sorts  of  things  that  dad  would  be  able  to  tell  you,"  she  said. 
But  even  that,  though  it  brought  back  something  of  real  life, 
failed  to  rouse  in  him  any  more  than  a  sort  of  gentle  derision. 
Oh  yes,  yes — he  knew  the  sort  of  information  that  a  man  of 
General  Sir  Harry  Creichton's  calibre  would  be  likely  to 
vouchsafe  to  an  outsider. 

"  Some  day,  some  day.  Yes,  yes,  I  must  come  and  see 
where  my  darling  lives — Laura,  my  Laura — but  not  now." 

"  Yet  you  said  that  you  would  come  down  and  fetch  me, 
run  away  with  me." 

"Ah,  yes,  run  away;  but  that  is  a  different  matter.  It  is 
the  staying;  the  facing  it  out;  the  whole  idea  of  the  infinite 
propriety,  the  solidity,  of  your  English  families  which  frightens 
me." 

"But  some  day?     Soon,  quite  soon?" 

"Yes,  soon;  quite  soon." 

A  sudden  vision  of  how  he  might  go  to  her,  stand  by  her, 
his  arm  about  her,  almost  unnoticed,  there  on  the  height, 
with  the  entire  family  engrossed  by  something  even  more 
terrible  than  a  mesalliance — a  valley  filled  with  flame,  the 
slopes  rocked  by  explosion  upon  explosion — came  to  him; 
followed  by  a  sudden  determination  to  relinquish  the  whole 
thing — anarchy,  not  love — and  steal  Laura  away  to  some 
quiet  spot  upon  the  Mediterranean  coast. 

He  parted  with  her  upon  this  note;  feeling  good  and  at 
peace  with  the  world. 

To  hell  with  Grobo  and  his  crew,  all  those  old  associates 
and  schemes!  He  had  done  with  them;  was  bored  with  them, 
utterly  bored. 


LAURA  CREICHTON  125 

The  refrain  of  that  little  Spanish  song — of  which  he  had 
quoted  a  few  lines,  then  stopped  short,  that  first  day  at 
Blackheath — came  back  to  him: 

Some  day  more  kind 
My  fate  I'll  find; 
Some  night,  kiss  thee. 


CHAPTER  XII 

AND  yet,  but  one  week  later,  the  newspaper-boys,  argosies 
of  evil,  were  racing  up  Fleet  Street,  flowing  out  in  all 
directions  .  .  .  What  did  I  say?  Argosies?  More  like 
torpedoes  shooting  through  the  sea  of  traffic: 

"Orrible  disaster!" 

"Ful  explosion!" 

'Arsenal  wrecked!" 

'Ter'ble  loss  o'  life!" 

'Bolshevism  in  England!" 

"SinnFeiners!" 

"Explosion  at  Woolwich!" 

"  Woolwich— Woolwich ! " 

By  this  time  Paul  Vortonitch,  still  breathless  from  the 
effect  of  something  apart  from  physical  or  mental  haste,  was 
sitting  in  his  own  room,  rather  back  from  the  window;  con- 
scious of  little  save  a  sensation  of  amazing  emptiness,  as  though 
the  greater  part  of  him,  the  middle  part,  were  unaccountably 
missing. 

He  had  not  intended  it — had  intended  to  drop  every- 
thing of  the  sort  after  that  last  meeting  with  Laura. 
But  Grobo  had  pushed  him  on  by  a  sort  of  atmosphere  of 
doubt  which  he  manipulated  in  such  a  fashion  that  it  spread 
like  a  miasma;  so  that  a  personage  in  Vienna  wrote:  "  Is  it 
not  time  that  Comrade  57  did  something  to  prove  himself?" 
With  all  this  he  issued  no  orders,  gave  the  impression  that 
everything  was  just  as  he  had  always  known  that  it  would 
be:  that  he  himself  had  never  expected  anything  very  much 
from  Comrade  57 — which  was  Paul  Vortonitch's  official 
number. 

It  was,  in  the  end,  this,  along  with  Grobo's  attitude  of  not 
condemning,  scarcely  even  changing  in  his  kindness,  because, 
after  all,  people  could  not  help  being  what  they  were,  which 
impelled  Vortonitch  forward,  forced  his  hand;  for  one  may  be 
disbelieved  into  doing  all  sorts  of  things. 

And,  after  all,  it  had  been  worth  it:  the  terrific,  the  flaming 
excitement;  the  feeling  of  almost  unlimited  power;  the  sight 

126 


LAURA  CREICHTON  127 

of  all  that  silly  surprise — talk  of  people  being  "struck  silly"! 
— the  faces  wiped  clean  of  all  expression;  and  then,  the  panic. 

That  panic!  It  was  like  the  flow  of  wine  through  his 
veins;  in  a  way,  he  was  still  drunk  with  it. 

Imagine  any  human  being,  an  ordinary  human  being — a 
rather  shabby  and  worked-soiled  young  mechanic,  with  a 
straggling  dark  moustache  and  what  looked  like  a  bag  of  tools 
in  one  hand — being  able  to  set  a  multitude  stampeding  in  that 
fashion! 

As  he  went  into  the  Arsenal  that  morning  he  had  caught 
sight  of  himself,  with  the  bag,  reflected  against  the  dark 
window  of  one  of  the  offices  not  far  from  the  entrance.  For  he 
had  a  regular  pass  now,  as  an  electrician  and  very  competent 
workman. 

A  couple  of  hours  later  he  had  once  again  encountered  his 
own  reflection — this  time  without  the  bag — and  smiled  at  it. 

"Gone  an'  forgotten  one  o'  my  tools,  blast  it  all!"  he 
explained  to  the  policeman  on  guard  at  the  gate. 

"Left  your  bag?" 

"  Till  I  come  back — three  minutes." 

He  was  extraordinarily  cool,  not  to  say  casual  in  his 
movements.  There  was  a  boat  waiting  for  him  to  the  right 
of  the  landing-stage  from  the  moving  bridge,  but  he  did  not  go 
to  it;  at  least,  not  for  a  while.  An  odd  mixture  of  vanity — 
reckless,  swaggering  vanity — and  curiosity  made  him  determine 
to  see  the  thing  out;  and  passing  through  Beresford  Square 
and  up  the  hill  a  little,  he  turned  into  a  confectioner's  shop, 
ordered  a  cup  of  coffee,  and  sat  there  drinking  it;  with  that 
feeling  of  rather  dense  calmness  which  so  often  accompanies 
any  great  strain. 

It  was  not  a  very  clean  shop,  and  it  was  full  of  flies:  he 
did  not  remember  ever  having  seen  so  many  in  England. 
There  was  yellow  gauze  spread  over  the  cakes  on  the  counter, 
but  they  seemed  to  have  got  through  it — or  was  that  only  the 
currants?  Odd  how  he  noticed  everything:  even  the  fact 
that  one  false  diamond  was  missing  from  the  left  earring  of  the 
girl  who  served  him. 

He  had  given  what  he  called  "Chose"  half  an  hour:  at 
precisely  twenty  minutes  from  the  time  he  left  the  Arsenal, 
and  it  had  taken  him  eight  to  reach  the  gate,  he  rose  and  paid 
his  bill. 

There  was  some  delay  over  the  change,  for  he  had  nothing 
less  than  a  pound  note;  he  heard  it  strike  ten,  and  at  that 
moment,  that  very  moment,  there  was  a  crash,  a  roar,  while — 


128  LAURA  CREICHTON 

almost  majestically,  the  whole  front  window  of  the  shop  fell, 
fainting  backwards  over  the  spotted  cakes. 

The  attendant  had  gone  into  the  back  room  for  change;  he 
himself  was  in  the  line  of  the  door,  and  save  for  a  cut  on  the 
cheek  from  a  fragment  of  flying  glass,  unhurt;  though  the 
door  itself  flew  back  with  such  violence  that  the  key  was 
broken  off  against  the  wall  behind  it. 

On  every  side  there  was  the  crash  of  falling  glass:  little 
pops  of  explosion  followed  one  after  another,  like  the  report 
of  a  gun. 

Glancing  upwards,  he  saw  one  large  chimney  at  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  street  totter,  bend  forward,  hesitate,  and 
then  double  up;  heard  the  clatter  of  glass  interspersed  with 
the  heavier  fall  of  bricks. 

The  air  was  so  full  of  thick  yellowish  smoke  that  every- 
thing appeared  dim  and  unreal;  for  a  moment  he  felt  a  little 
sick,  believed  the  actual  earth  to  be  stirring  beneath  him; 
and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  every  house  in  Woolwich  shook 
from  its  foundations. 

An  odd  roar  detached  itself  from  the  medley  of  sounds :  the 
hoarse  cries  of  a  terror-stricken  multitude,  the  pad  of  in- 
numerable feet;  hundreds  upon  hundreds  of  people  racing 
up-hill,  dragging  their  children  with  them:  dragging  or 
hugging  every  sort  of  incongruous  burden — bird-cages,  cats, 
clothes,  pictures — pulling  and  pushing  the  old  people;  giving 
them  up  in  despair;  running  forward,  repenting  and  forcing 
their  way  back  to  them;  panting,  groaning;  animal-like  in 
their  fear,  their  look  of  being  utterly  flabbergasted:  that  look 
as  of  idiot  children  which  overcomes  people  knocked  silly  with 
fear;  running  away  from  what  they  had  seen;  breasting  and 
buffeting  with  another  wave  of  humanity  which  was  rushing 
down-hill,  intent  upon  seeing  what  they  could  see. 

Among  them  all  there  was  scarcely  a  man  or  woman  with 
shut  mouth;  gaping  or  shrieking,  they  were  all  alike  wide 
open. 

The  shop-girl  had  appeared  in  the  doorway  leading  from 
the  parlour,  one  hand,  with  Vortonitch's  change,  mechanically 
stuck  out  in  front  of  her,  her  flaccid  face  absolutely  devoid  of 
expression,  staring  dully  at  the  odd  spectacle  of  the  street 
debouching  into  the  shop. 

As  Vortonitch  took  his  change — rather  pleased  with 
himself  for  thinking  of  it — a  couple  of  urchins  flung  their  bodies 
across  the  window-pane  with  its  chevaux-de-frise  of  jagged 
glass  and  scooped  together  an  armful  of  cakes. 


LAURA  CREICHTON  129 

Moving  with  the  descending  throng,  Vortonitch  made  his 
way  to  Beresf  ord  Square,  where  a  cordon  of  police  was  already 
established.  A  moment  or  so  later  there  was  the  beat  of 
steady  feet,  oddly  significant,  awe-inspiring,  amid  all  this 
trampling,  shuffling;  and  a  detachment  of  sappers  moved 
down  to  supplement  them. 

Taxis  rolled  up,  and  well-dressed  men  with  bags  in  their 
hands  jumped  out  of  them,  and  were  admitted,  with  scarcely 
a  question — doctors  and  high  officials,  but  mostly  doctors. 

The  sight  of  these  bags  aroused  a  sort  of  humour  in  Vor- 
tonitch, who  recognized  the  nearest  policeman  as  the  one  to 
whom  he  had  spoken  on  the  way  out. 

"My  tools,"  he  said;  "my  bag  of  tools.  I'll  have  to  get 
in " 

"No  one  allowed  in,"  said  the  policeman:  his  glance  was 
contemptuous.  One  or  two  of  the  crowd,  who  had  caught 
what  Vortonitch  said,  turned  upon  him. 

'You  an'  your  tools!" 

' Thinkin'  o'  tools  a  time  like  this!" 

'Hundreds  dead!" 

'Thousands  dead!" 

'Shame  upon  you!" 

'Shame!" 

Wives  who  had  run  up-hill,  remembered  their  husbands  and 
ran  down  again  and  thronged  the  square:  an  odd  silence  hung 
over  them,  broken  every  now  and  then  by  a  hysterical  shriek 
as  the  first  definite  word  went  round — "The  big  gun  shop  " — 
and  the  wife  of  some  man  who  worked  there  caught  it. 

A  large  motor  drove  up  to  the  main  gates,  and  as  two 
officers  got  out  of  it  Vortonitch  recognised  in  one  of  them 
Laura's  father:  his  mouth  tightly  shut,  not  like  those  others, 
though  his  face  was  as  grey  as  theirs  were. 

The  crowds  had  ceased  to  bolt  and  scatter,  and  hung  like 
swarming  bees  as  Vortonitch  made  his  way  through  a  narrow- 
alleyway  and  down  a  flight  of  steps  to  the  river,  where  a  man 
in  a  boat  sat  waiting  him,  hunched  over  his  oars. 

He  glanced  up  from  under  his  brows,  head  still  bent,  when 
Vortonitch  stepped  in,  moved  lightly  to  the  stern  and  took 
the  rudder-lines  in  his  hand.  But  he  did  not  speak,  either 
then  or  as  they  crossed  the  river,  moving  diagonally  up-stream 
to  Wapping  Old  Stairs:  a  man  like  a  bulk  of  dark  greenish 
timber,  rudely  shaped  and  oddly  inhuman:  with  a  face  so  dark 
and  blunt,  so  totally  unexpressive — save  in  that  moment  when 
he  had  glanced  up  at  the  other  man — that  strangers  might 


130  LAURA  CREICHTON 

have  talked  of  their  most  intimate  affairs  in  front  of  him, 
regardlessly  leant  against  him  as  though  he  were  one  of  those 
roughly-squared  and  weather-blackened  posts  which  at  low 
tide  stand  high  above  the  river-mud,  with  a  boat  or  so  tethered 
to  them. 

His  silence  irritated  Vortonitch  in  his  state  of  high  nervous 
excitement;  but  he  did  not  care  to  break  it;  held  back  by  a 
feeling  that  if  he  once  spoke  he  might  say  too  much  one  way 
or  another;  his  irritation  amounting  to  an  active  dislike  for  the 
man  and  his  dense,  teasing  silence,  when,  later  that  same 
night,  he  was  rebuked  by  Grobo  for  having  kept  the  boatman 
waiting;  run  unnecessary  risks  by  hanging  about  the  scene 
of  the  explosion. 

"How  did  he  know  I  wasn't  dead?"  he  retorted  bitterly, 
childishly,  for  the  whole  thing  had  been  immense;  the  excite- 
ment of  it  was  still  flaming  through  him,  and  he  was  itching 
for  praise. 

" 'E  was  not  afraid  you  were  dead;  it  was  not  that — that 
would  not  'ave  mattered,  scarcely  at  all,"  answered  Grobo 
blandly.  "  It  was  the  chance  of  you  'aving  been  caught  that 
worried  'im.  It  is  that  you  'ave  to  guard  against;  in  every 
way.  Yes,  at  the  worst,  in  every  way."  He  spoke  significantly, 
and  Vortonitch  realised  what  he  meant.  "In  every  way" — 
with  a  pistol  at  his  own  head;  by  poison  self -administered,  if 
this  seemed  necessary. 

"  Sometimes  we  want  a  martyr  to  our  cause,"  he  con- 
tinued. "But  not  now,  my  friend.  Mystery,  the  'error  of 
what  is  not  understood,  located — that  is  what  we  want.  And 
that  is  what  we  must  'ave." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

As  for  Laura  Creichton,  she  was  half-way  down  the  hill  in 
Blackheath  village,  swinging  a  rush  basket  in  one  hand, 
bound  for  the  chief  confectioner's  shop,  for  they  were  expect- 
ing people  to  tea  and  tennis  that  afternoon,  when  the  explosion 
— the  tearing  crash,  the  roar,  the  shattering  of  glass  clashing 
to  the  pavement  from  oddly  separated  groups  of  windows — 
rushed  in  upon  her. 

It  seemed  as  though  it  went  through  and  through  her: 
how  far  the  earth  shook,  how  far  she  herself  shook,  it  was 
difficult  to  say.  If  a  ship  were  a  sentient  thing,  felt  herself 
striking  a  rock,  with  the  shock  vibrating,  grinding,  from  bow 
to  stern,  splitting  her  in  half,  it  might  have  been  like  that. 

In  common  with  all  the  other  people  in  the  street  Laura 
hunched  her  shoulders  to  her  ears,  stared  up  at  the  sky;  for- 
getting that  the  war  was  over — supposedly  over. 

As  her  glance  dropped,  she  found  that  she  had  drawn  up 
before,  was  still  confronting,  almost  touching,  a  tall,  stout 
man,  with  an  immense  face,  deadly  pale — though  there  was 
nothing  in  that;  anybody  would  have  been  pale,  everyone  was 
pale,  at  such  a  moment,  and  naturally  enough — while  she  did 
not  so  much  seem  to  hear  as  remember  having  heard,  some 
time,  any  time — it  might  have*  been  a  mere  moment,  or 
centuries  ago — a  deep,  husky  voice  ejaculate: 

"My  God!     Already!" 

It  seemed  that  his  glance  alighted  upon  her  almost  at 
the  same  instant  as  she  herself  came  back  to  earth,  realising 
the  source  of  horror  as  something  not  immediately  above 
them. 

At  that  moment  the  rest  of  the  midmorning  shoppers 
shook  themselves  free  from  the  paralysis  of  horror;  the  more 
timid  bolting  into  the  shops;  the  remainder  racing  up-hill 
towards  the  Heath — realising  that  it  was  from  this  direction, 
more  easterly  and  yet  to  be  reached  by  this  road  alone,  that 
the  sound  had  proceeded;  was,  indeed,  not  yet  over,  hic- 
coughing itself  out  in  a  series  of  lesser  explosions. 

As  Laura  turned  with  the  rest,  the  big  man  caught  at  her 

131 


132  LAURA  CREICHTON 

arm,  panting;  although  he  had  as  yet  scarcely  moved,  the 
sweat  poured  down  his  face. 

"Miss  Creichton,  wait — a  moment — I  can't — you  see  I 
can't  hurry — not  up  hill — your  father ?" 

"  He's  at  home " — she  was  not  in  the  least  surprised  at 
this  stranger  knowing  her  name;  at  that  moment  nothing 
would  have  surprised  her — "with  General  Field — staying 
with  us  .  .  ." 

Her  own  voice  broke  in  sharp,  panting  breaths,  but  that 
was  from  excitement  alone;  for  she  herself  could  have  taken 
the  whole  hill  at  a  run,  had  it  not  been  for  the  stranger  by  her 
side,  so  breathless,  so  blue  about  the  lips  that  she — and  ho\v 
like  Laura! — was  overcome  by  a  sort  of  sense  of  responsibility, 

"Don't  hurry;  it's  bad  for  you;  I'm  sure  it's  bad  for 
you.  You  want  to  see  my  father?" 

"Yes." 

"He  was  there.  But  now "  she  thought:  "If  it's 

Woolwich — and  it  must  be  Woolwich — he  will  have  gone." 

"Wait — if  only  .  .  ."  They  seemed  to  be  crawling, 
literally  crawling.  But  for  all  that,  his  breath  came  in  sobs. 
"If  only— a— a  .  .  .  There— there!  Stop  it!" 

He  waved  his  stick,  and  Laura,  darting  into  the  road,  held 
up  a  taxi  whirling  off  to  the  scene  of  the  disaster. 

The  fat  man  opened  the  door,  and  she  got  in,  without  a 
protest,  almost  without  a  thought.  Everything  was  so  dream- 
like that  her  every  movement  seemed  to  be  pressed  upon  her, 
preordained;  while,  though  she  heard  perfectly,  there  was  a 
feeling  as  though  cotton-wool  were  tightly  jammed  into  her 
ears. 

"General  Sir  Harry  Creichton 's  house,"  croaked  the 
stranger,  and  floundering  in  at  her  side,  sat  down,  gasping. 

It  would  have  been  a  bare  seven  minutes'  walk,  and  the 
taxi-driver  went  like  the  wind,  afraid  of  missing  anything. 

A  minute  and  a  half — two  minutes  at  the  most — and  yet 
all  this,  questions  and  answers,  with  almost  innumerable 
thoughts  shooting  to  and  fro,  splaying  out  in  every  direction 
through  both  their  minds. 

"  Do  you  know  a  man,  fat — not  like  me,  tight  fat — small, 
fair:  little  round  hat.  Name  of  Grobo?" 

"No." 

"Name  of  Hodder?" 

"  No." 

"Name  of  Muller?" 

"  No." 


LAURA  CREICHTON  133 

"  Sonnenschein?" 

"No." 

That  being  the  last  of  the  aliases  which  could,  morally,  so 
to  speak,  never  actually,  be  traced  to  Carl  Grobo,  the  fat  man 
paused — yes,  there  was  time  for  that  too — fixed  her  oddly, 
with  eyes  like  an  elephant's,  deeply-set  and  small,  yet  strangely 
penetrating. 

"But  do  you  know  a  man  named  Vortonitch — Paul  Vor- 
tonitch."  It  was  an  assertion  and  not  a  question;  and  Laura 
Creichton  answered  it,  with  a  flush,  a  lift  of  her  head. 

"Yes,  I  do."  It  was  as  though  she  might  have  added — 
"And  what  of  that?"  moving  as  far  as  possible  away  from 
the  stranger,  as  though  his  proximity  there  in  the  taxi  had 
suddenly  became  odious  to  her. 

"Miss  Creichton,  did  you  ever  meet  him  in  Woolwich?" 

"  No."  It  was  so  nearly  a  lie  that  she  felt  obliged  to  assure 
herself  of  its  truth.  Though  the  very  next  moment  she  did  lie 
— why,  she  could  not  have  said — and  badly  enough,  too,  with 
flaming  face:  the  candid  gaze  of  conscious  guilt. 

"Or  coming  away  from  Woolwich?" 

"No." 

"  Mind !  Remember  " — the  fat  man  wagged  an  immense, 
square-shaped  finger;  his  look  fatherly  but  compelling — "I 
beg  you  to  remember  that " 

What  had  he  been  going  to  say?  What  could  he  have  been 
going  to  say?  As  Laura  pondered  over  this  in  the  watches  of 
a  restless  night,  an  odd  phrase  came  into  her  mind,  something 
she  must  have  read  in  the  papers: 

"Remember  that  anything  you  say  may  be  used  against 
you." 

But  what  this  corpulent  stranger,  with  his  odd,  rather 
pathetic  air  of  exhaustion,  might  have  been  going  to  say,  at 
that  particular  moment,  at  any  moment,  was  lost  to  her 
then,  and,  as  it  proved,  for  ever,  for  the  taxi  swung  in  at  the 
gates  of  "  The  House,"  drew  up  at  the  door,  and,  hurtling  out, 
he  caught  at  the  bell,  an  old-fashioned  hanging  affair,  and 
pulled  it  so  that  it  came  off  in  his  hand. 

The  taxi-man  bent  round  from  his  seat,  shouting  something 
about  paying  him  and  letting  him  go.  But  of  this  his  fare 
took  no  notice  whatsoever,  standing  with  the  lower  portion  of 
the  bell  and  a  trail  of  wire  in  one  hand,  sounding  the  knocker 
with  the  other,  and  issuing  his  orders  to  Laura  at  one  and  the 
same  moment: 

"Go  and  see  if  he's  still  there." 


134  LAURA  CREICHTON 

With  no  thought  of  disputing  this  command,  driven  by  a 
sense  of  extreme  haste,  Laura  ran;  was  half  across  the  hall 
when  she  encountered  Parker,  galvanised — between  one  thing 
and  another — out  of  her  usual  hauteur. 

At  the  same  moment  Lady  Creichton  emerged  from  the 
drawing-room : 

"Oh,  Laura  dear,  I  am  so  relieved!" — while  Marjorie  blew 
down  upon  them  from  the  garden  door. 

It  seemed  as  though  they  were  all  talking  at  once. 

*  Parker— my  father  .  .  .?" 

'Gone,  Miss — after  the  explosion.  Quite  safe.  Now 
dont  you " 

'Laura,  wherever  were  you?    Are  you  sure " 

'Did  you  hear  it?  My  hat!  did  you  ever  hear  anything 
like  it?  No  school  for  us  to-day.  Such  a  row!  Nina  Boyle 
in  hysterics,  and  that  idiot,  Miss  Warner,  what  do  you 

think "  screamed  Marjorie;  then  broke  off,  staring,  for 

Laura  had  run  back  to  the  front  door,  where  a  huge  blot  of  a 
man  stood,  silhouetted  against  the  fresh  young  green  of  the 
trees  at  the  back  of  him. 

"Gone,"  she  said,  adding  something  about  "Woolwich 
Arsenal,"  though  supposedly  the  stranger  took  that  for 
granted,  for  he  had  blundered  back  into  the  car  almost  before 
the  words  were  out  of  her  mouth,  shouting  to  the  driver  of  the 
taxi  so  urgently  that  it  literally  shot  round  the  curve  of  the 
drive  and,  with  a  sharp  hoot,  out  of  the  opposite  gate  to  that 
by  which  it  had  entered. 

"Who's  that,  Laura?     Laura,  who's  that?" 

Laura's  younger  sister  shrieked  at  her  as  though  she  were 
deaf;  and,  indeed,  she  might  have  been:  beyond  the  reach  of 
any  human  voice,  too.  For  there,  with  them  all  claiming  her 
attention,  pouring  their  sentiments  into  her  ears,  she  turned 
aside  and  walked  slowly  upstairs. 

Why  had  she  lied  when  the  stranger  asked  that  odd 
question — if  she  had  ever  met  Vortonitch  "coming  from 
Woolwich"?  She  told  herself  now  that  it  was  an  instinct  of 
protection;  that,  knowing  something  of  her  lover's  life, 
realising  his  fate  as  a  patriot,  a  fugitive  from  every  sort  of 
political  machination,  a  member  of  the  most  cruelly  op- 
pressed race  on  earth,  she  had  suspected  the  fat  man  of  some 
nefarious  intent  against  him:  realised  him  as  a  Bolshevist 
assassin,  or  some  such  person. 

And  yet,  if  this  were  the  case,  why,  oh  why,  had  she 
submitted  herself  to  his  orders,  entered  the  taxi,  sat  by  his 


LAURA  CREICHTON  135 

side,  driven  to  her  home  with  him;  procured  for  him  the 
information  he  desired  regarding  her  father?  Not  only  that, 
but  run  to  do  it! 

Was  it  a  fatal  weakness  in  her  character,  leaving  her  at 
anyone's  beck  and  call?  Or  was  it,  again,  some  instinct  of 
putting  him  off  the  one  scent  which  concerned  herself — 
concerned  something  more  than  herself:  the  man  whom  she 
loved? 

Upstairs,  standing  in  the  middle  of  her  own  room,  she 
trembled  from  head  to  foot;  shaken  through  and  through  with 
the  shock  of  the  explosion;  with  excitement  and  fear.  One 
of  the  most  considerate,  the  gentlest,  kindest  creatures  that 
ever  lived;  and  yet  now  without  so  much  as  a  single  thought 
for  the  -death  and  bereavement,  the  suffering,  fear  and  desola- 
tion which  blackened  the  fair  summer's  morning  not  three 
miles  away. 

For  that  is  a  woman,  and  that  is  her  way  of  love — a  com- 
plete, and,  often  enough,  sudden  engrossment  in  personal 
affairs,  or  in  one  person,  overriding  her  patriotism  and  civic 
conscience;  overriding  everything  and  everybody,  apart  from 
the  beloved. 

As  to  the  stout  man,  this  is  what  happened,  or  had  hap- 
pened— and  had  she  but  known  it,  Laura  Creichton  would 
have  been,  if  not  glad,  relieved;  and  that  alone  shows,  seeing 
what  she  was. 

The  taxi-driver,  impelled  by  that  word  or  so  his  fare  had 
uttered  to  him,  had  driven  like  the  wind,  slowing  down  as  he 
reached  the  hem  of  the  crowd;  and  yet,  even  then,  hooting 
with  such  intolerance  that  everyone  involuntarily  gave  way. 

Pressing  through  Beresford  Square,  he  drew  up  sharply  at 
the  main  gate  of  the  Arsenal,  and  waited  for  his  passenger  to 
alight. 

As  the  door  remained  shut,  he  scrambled  from  his  post  and 
came  round  to  it,  at  the  same  moment  as  a  policeman 
approached  it  from  the  opposite  side. 

They  both  looked  in  the  window  at  once,  so  that  their 
glances  met  before  they  veered  to  the  stout  man  leaning  back 
in  the  corner. 

"Asleep!"  ejaculated  the  driver.  "And  after  telling  me 
to  'urry  like  'ell — tellin'  me  as  'ow  'e  was " 

He  broke  off,  the  door  open,  the  handle  in  his  hand,  as  the 
policeman  opened  his  door,  got  into  the  taxi  and  bent  over  the 
supine  figure,  flabbier  and  bluer  than  ever;  then  glanced  up, 
his  fresh  face  grave  and  important. 


136  LAURA  CREICHTON 

"  Call  one  o'  our  fellows  from  the  lodge — tell  'em  to  send 
for  a  doctor — to  keep  the  crowd  back  .  .  .  Oh  yes;  dead — 
dead,  by  the  look  of  him,  but  not  knowing,  can't  say.  Hurry 
up,  there,  or  we'll  have  'em  all  around  us." 

They  got  him  out  of  the.  taxi  and  into  the  little  lodge,  with 
some  difficulty,  a  dead  weight.  .  .  .  Oh  yes,  quite  dead.  The 
policeman  had  been  right  there;  would  have  been  right  in 
giving  utterance  to  his  further  opinion,  which,  being  young 
and  anxious  not  to  exceed  his  duty,  he  refrained  from  doing. 
"  Heart,  by  the  look  of  it — great  fat  chap  like  him." 

"  Strange  the  world  about  us  lies  " — who  was  it  said  that? 
"  Strange  the  world,"  but  stranger,  stranger  by  far,  the  minds 
of  men.  Carl  Grobo  had  lost  many  so-called  friends,  fraternal 
comrades,  fellow-workers,  and  not  turned  so  much  as  a  hair; 
but,  reading  of  Mullings'  death  in  the  paper  that  evening  he 
was  overcome  by  a  sense  of  almost  irreparable  blankness. 

"Ah-h-h!  Well,  I'm  glad  he's  gone,"  said  Mrs.  Grobo. 
"It  will  be  safer  without  him;  he  knew  too  much." 

"Ah  yes,  my  'eart,  safer,  but  .  .  .  Oh,  'eaven  above!  'ow 
much  more  duller!" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

FOR  close  upon  a  month  Vortonitch  made  no  effort  to  meet 
Laura,  felt  no  need  of  her,  engrossed  as  he  was  in  other 
affairs. 

He  had  seen  nothing  of  the  actual  suffering  caused  by  his 
Woolwich  coup;  had  he  done  so  he  might  have  been  touched, 
or  so  revolted  as  to  hold  his  hand;  for,  like  all  selfish  and 
emotional  people,  he  could  not  bear  the  sight  of  suffering,  and 
this  was  what,  for  the  most  part,  his  humanity  amounted  to. 

As  it  was,  he  was  all  on  edge  for  more:  at  first  just  the 
excitement,  then  a  filling-up  of  the  cup;  anything,  anything 
to  drown  the  flattened  dregs  of  achievement. 

He  had  received  a  certain  amount  of  praise;  but  it  was 
guarded.  He  realised  this;  and,  more,  it  was  not  enough: 
nothing  seemed  enough,  and  he  wondered  if  it  ever  would  do 
again. 

When  he  read  in  the  papers  that  the  whole  of  the  affair  at 
Woolwich  was  being  attributed  to  one  of  those  accidents 
against  which  a  place  like  the  Arsenal  can  never  be  completely 
proof,  he  was  as  chagrined  as  a  small  boy  who,  jumping  out 
from  behind  a  hedge  and  crying  "Bo!"  at  the  passers-by,  is 
delighted  to  see  them  start,  exasperated  to  find  them  pull 
themselves  together  again  and  walk  on  as  though  nothing  has 
happened. 

In  the  same  little-boy  way,  as  he  was  unable  to  run  about 
crying,  "  I  did  it,"  he  attempted  something  of  the  same  sort 
again,  this  time  in  the  Royal  Naval  Ordnance  Depot. 

Upon  this  occasion,  however,  he  was  baulked  by  the 
courage  of  some  unknown  workman  who,  discovering  his 
bomb,  set  in  a  large  store  of  detonators,  ran  with  it  to  the  river. 

This,  now,  was  a  plainly  deliberated  attempt  at  wreckage; 
and  the  same  papers  which  attributed  the  other  affair  to 
mischance  were  full  of  "Attempted  Nihilism,"  "Anarchy," 
"Bolshevism,"  "Revolution,"  "The  Red  Peril." 

And  yet,  for  all  this  publicity,  here  was  Vortonitch  once 
again  baulked,  this  time  by  the  action  of  a  man  braver  and 
saner  than  himself.  And  that  was  not  all,  for  in  his 

137 


138  LAURA  CREICHTON 

comrades'  minds,  judging  from  their  glances,  from  a  word 
here,  a  word  there,  a  certain  watchful  contempt,  he  discovered 
a  belief — so  intangibly  expressed  that  it  was  impossible  to 
combat — that  the  placing  of  the  bomb,  the  dramatic  race  to 
the  river,  was  all  a  piece  of  play-acting  upon  his  part  and 
upon  his  alone;  a  mere  ruse,  staged  for  his  own  advancement 
with  the  enemy;  a  running  with  the  hare  and  hunting  with 
the  hounds. 

On  the  top  of  all  this,  and  with  amazing  quickness,  an 
idea  began  to  percolate  that  Boyce,  and  Boyce  alone,  was 
responsible  for  that  first  successful  outrage:  Boyce,  a  martyr 
to  that  cause  for  which  Vortonitch,  alive  and  well — having 
removed  his  precious  person  to  a  place  of  safety — took  the 
entire  credit. 

There  was  the  explanation  of  his  long  delay  in  reaching 
the  boat  that  had  been  provided  for  him;  the  reason  for 
Grobo's  sharp  criticism  and  lukewarm  praise,  thought  Vor- 
tonitch. 

That  silent  boatman!  He  might  have  known  that  he  was 
against  him,  set  to  spy  upon  him.  There  were  others  also 
equally  against  him,  for  a  man  of  moods  is  bound  to  make 
enemies;  chief  among  these  Stein,  his  rival  in  egotism,  a 
trade  where  no  two  agree;  the  one  man,  among  all  her  hus- 
band's associates,  who  had  incurred  Mrs.  Grobo's  dislike  by 
his  idee  fixe  of  constant  slaughter  and  the  compulsory  cessa- 
tion of  the  birth-rate  for,  say,  five  years,  as  the  only  road  to 
a  pure  democracy,  work,  wages,  and  elbow-room  for  all. 

All  this  jealousy  and  suspicion — as  rife  in  the  Anarchist 
community  as  in  any  little  English  country  village — worked 
upon  Vortonitch,  his  nerves  already  on  edge  and  suffering 
horribly  from  insomnia,  so  that  a  mad  idea  came  into  his 
head  of  destroying  Nihilism  by  Nihilism.  Stifling  this,  he 
was  busied  with  plans  for  another,  and  this  time  ill-considered, 
over-dramatic  coup,  when  Grobo,  backed  by  an  authoritative 
letter,  bade  him  hold  his  hand. 

"Wait  a  leetle,  my  dear — just  a  leetle,  and  see  'ow  things 
go,"  he  said;  words  which  were,  in  the  younger  man's  mind, 
transformed  into :  "  See  where  you  go,  how  you  go." 

It  was  now  that,  overcome  by  a  sick  distaste  for  his  old 
life,  for  everything  in  it,  that  his  thoughts  turned  to  Laura, 
with  a  passionate  desire  for  her  presence,  an  equally  passionate 
disbelief  that  he  could  ever  again  have  any  wish  on  earth 
apart  from  it. 

They  arranged   a  meeting   on  the   little   landing-stage   at 


LAURA  CREICHTON  139 

Greenwich,  when  Laura — who  had  been  worn  by  anxiety 
concerning  her  lover,  his  long  silence,  intermingled  with  a 
sort  of  fear  of  life,  in  which  everything  seemed  to  have  got 
beyond  her,  and  altogether  out  of  scale — was  shocked  from 
every  thought  of  self  by  his  grey  pallor,  his  listlessness. 

"I'm  so  infernally  tired,"  he  said,  and  more  than  once, 
like  a  child:  "Oh,  I'm  so  tired!" 

The  tide  was  running  out.  It  seemed  as  though  it  carried 
the  stale  scents  of  the  town  upon  its  breast,  would  not  be  free 
of  them  until  it  reached  the  sea.  There  was  no  freshness  in 
the  air,  even  there,  at  the  water's  edge;  and  Laura,  remem- 
bering what  London  itself  had  been  like  the  day  of  her  last 
music  lesson,  was  overcome  with  anxiety. 

"You  must  get  away  for  a  change.  Couldn't  you,  won't 
you,  go  into  Devonshire,  up  onto  the  moors,  for  a  week  or 
two;  or  to  the  Cornish  coast?  Paul,  you  look  worn  out, 
wretched.  You'll  be  ill  if  you  stay  in  London.  The  streets 
are  like  fire;  not  a  breath  of  air;  and  your  rooms  are  so  shut 
in.  Paul,  you  must  go." 

"I  want  to  be  near  you;  this  is  all  I  want,  to  have  you 
near  me  like  this."  The  very  touch  of  her  shoulder  against 
him  filled  him  with  languid  contentment;  he  was,  as  he  had 
said,  desperately  tired,  too  tired  to  face  the  thought  of  any 
movement  whatever. 

"  I'd  come  too,  if  you  needed  me." 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her  curiously,  with  deep,  sunken 
eyes.  "  I  believe  you  would,"  he  said  wonderingly,  and  leant 
closer  against  her,  dropping  his  cheek  to  hers. 

"Laura,  don't  let's  tempt  fate;  don't  let's  plan  anything, 
say  anything;  don't  let's  move — we'll  break  something,  upset 
something,  if  we  do.  This  happiness — it's  like  a  bubble  of 
Venetian  glass — if  we  dare  to  so  much  as  breathe  it  will  shiver 
into  a  thousand  fragments. 

"Laura,  beloved,  now,  this  moment,  we  have  each  other, 
just  hung  here  in  space,  apart  from  the  rest  of  the  world. 
Do  you  feel  how  the  tide  tugs  at  the  landing-stage? — do  you 
feel  it?  Throb— throb.  That's  life.  And  I'm  scared  of  it. 
Cheek  to  cheek,  like  this,  with  no  one  near,  no  one  knowing 
our  love,  shattering  it  by  comments;  for  just  this  moment,  no 
more,  we  are  safe;  but  how  long  will  it  last?  Nothing  lasts; 
nothing's  allowed  to  last.  , 

"You  speak  of  telling  your  own  people  of  our  love:  don't 
tell  anyone — anyone.  Don't  put  it  into  words,  even  to  your- 
self. There's  nothing  so  false,  so  cruel,  so  disillusioning  as 


140  LAURA  CREICHTON 

words — dangerous,  too,  dear  love,  for  the  jealous  gods  are 
the  eternal  gods.  Shut  your  eyes  and  hold  this  moment  tight, 
Laura,  for  all  it's  worth.  There  may  never  be  another  like  it, 
for  there's  nothing  more  suspect  than  happiness.  People 
won't  have  it,  just  won't  have  it:  pleasure,  amusement,  fat 
contentment — that's  all  very  well;  they  understand  that.  But 
happiness!  They're  like  boys  with  butterflies,  they're  after 
it  with  their  hats,  shouting,  sweating;  dropping  on  their 
knees  and  clutching — filled  with  dreams  of  boxes,  labels, 
cardboard,  cork,  pins:  crying  out,  'We've  got  it — here  it 
is!' — lifting  the  edge  of  the  hat,  and  finding  nothing  there: 
the  soul  of  happiness  lost  in  their  clamour. 

"That's  why  lovers  whisper  like  this,  beloved.  If  any 
single  soul  guessed  our  happiness,  do  you  think  they'd  leave 
us  so  much  as  a  breath  of  it? 

"  In  Poland  the  children  used  to  say — your  English 
children,  too,  I've  heard  them  in  the  street,  '  Open  your  mouth 
and  shut  your  eyes.'  There!  that's  the  way  with  love;  close 
your  lips  upon  it,  tight  as  tight !  Not  a  word,  or  out  it  goes." 

All  this,  and  yet,  with  another  week,  a  fresh  swing  of  the 
pendulum,  and  there  was  Vortonitch  not  even  agreeing  to,  but 
suggesting  a  visit  to  "The  House." 


CHAPTER  XV 

IT  was  like  this  more  than  anything  else.  They  had  met 
one  Friday  after  Laura's  lesson,  and  when  he  spoke  of  going 
down  to  Greenwich  Park  the  following  Tuesday  she  had  agreed 
to  meet  him,  then  remembered: 

"Oh,  but  I  can't;  we've  people  coming  to  tea  and 
tennis." 

"Well,  why  not  there,  at  your  home,  instead  of  in  the 
park,  eh?" 

She  gazed  at  him,  bewildered,  not  catching  his  meaning; 
and  he  laughed. 

"Ah,  you've  asked  me  often  enough,  but  now  you  don't 
want  me." 

"You  mean,  to  come  to  us?  Oh,  Paul,  why,  of  course,  if 
only  you  will!" 

"Well,  why  not?  Shall  I?  Just  for  the  fun  of  the 
thing? — no,  because  they  are  part  of  you,  sweetheart. 
Shall  I  dare?  Terrific  big- wigs,  aren't  they?  But — oh, 
well!  after  all  .  .  ."  That  boyish  diffidence  and  eagerness, 
displayed  with  Laura  alone,  gave  place  to  an  air  of  swagger; 
he  tossed  back  his  head.  "After  all,  one  is  oneself — no  one 
can  be  anything  more — and  not  altogether  a  country  bumpkin. 
Shall  I?" 

"Will  you?  Paul,  you  know  it's  what  I've  been  wanting 
more  than  anything." 

"  A  lark !  The  very  bosom  of  the  elect !  You're  sure  you 
won't  be  ashamed  of  me?"  He  was  so  plainly  confident  that 
she  wouldn't  that  he  laughed  again.  He  was  tired  of  all  the 
solemnities  of  anarchy,  and  nothing  could  be  greater  fun  than 
this  idea  of  peaceful  penetration  into  the  enemy's  camp — for 
the  moment. 

He  must  have  been  mad,  or  so  he  told  himself  later.  For 
there  were,  indeed,  times  when  this  was  what  his  sudden 
accesses  of  recklessness  amounted  to.  Days  and  days,  weeks, 
even  months  of  the  utmost  care,  the  finest  intrigue,  his  mind 
sure  and  steady  as  a  drill;  and  then,  like  a  sudden  gust  of 
wind,  these  moments  when,  borne  high  upon  the  crest  of  a 

141 


142  LAURA  CREICHTON 

wild  humour,  vanity,  audacity,  curiosity,  airy  fatalism,  bore- 
dom— for  even  this  in  Vortonitch's  strange  nature  rose  like  a 
passion,  in  place  of  dropping  to  mere  depression — he  let 
himself  go. 

At  such  times  he  was  like  a  man  playing  the  fiddle  more 
and  more  quickly,  madly:  certain  that  the  strings  must 
break — strings  never  to  be  replaced — and  yet  not  content 
with  the  bow,  tanging,  tearing  with  his  fingers,  from  some 
sheer  drive  of  devilment.  Oh  yes!  mad,  quite  mad! 

Most  often  it  was  something  like  this  which  landed  him  in 
difficulties.  That  was  why  Grobo  kept  a  doubtful  eye  upon 
him.  Confound  Grobo!  what  the  devil  was  there  in  that 
ridiculous  little  tub  of  a  man,  himself,  as  apart  from  his 
authority,  which  impressed  itself  upon  people  so  that  they 
referred  their  very  thoughts  to  him  and  his  judgment? 

And  yet,  once  again,  Grobo  had  been  right.  He  told 
himself  this  savagely  enough,  that  evening  after  his  visit  to 
Laura  Creichton's  home. 

What  was  it  that  had  taken  him  there  in  the  first  instance? 
For  the  climax  of  his  visit  was  a  tragedy  of  its  own.  Was  it 
one  of  the  old  flashy  impulses,  vanity,  curiosity  and  the  like? 
Or  was  it  something  rather  better?  Laura  herself — a  sudden 
determination  not  to  be  outdone  in  pride  and  courage  by 
Laura  the  quiet,  the  diffident?  For  when  he  went,  it  is 
certain  that  he  had  every  desire  to  please.  As  to  Laura,  she 
was  glad  that  there  were  other  people  there,  because  she 
thought  it  would  be  easier  for  him  than  meeting  her  father  and 
mother  alone.  The  Hendersons,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carlton,  a 
friend  of  Sir  Harry's,  a  couple  of  boys  from  "the  Shop,"  a 
young  married  couple  or  so:  all  service  people;  and,  above 
all,  Gerald  Stratton — her  "friend,"  as  she  thought  of  him, 
counting  upon  him  to  become  the  friend  of  her  friend.  She 
would  not  have  dared  mention  the  word  "  patron "  to 
Vortonitch;  but  for  all  that,  having  been  brought  up  in  a 
world  where  the  knowing  of  the  right  sort  of  people  was 
regarded  as  an  ordinary  asset,  she  undoubtedly  looked  to  his 
influence  to  help  her  lover  forward. 

She  had  mentioned  Vortonitch's  forthcoming  visit,  ex- 
plained him  awkwardly  enough — scarcely  realising  how 
awkward  it  would  be  until  she  started — and  by  some  confused 
mention  of  him  in  connection  with  her  singing  lessons  set  him 
in  Lady  Creichton's  mind  as  a  friend  of  Madame's,  some  sort 
of  a  musician,  or,  quite  vaguely,  singing-master. 

The  whole  effect  of  him  was  indeed  stranger  and  more 


LAURA  CREICHTON  143 

alien  than  anyone  could  have  thought;  and  to  people  like  the 
Creichtons  and  their  friends  it  was  only  by  putting  him  down 
as  some  sort  of  an  artist  or  foreigner — or  "person  of  that 
sort" — that  a  man  like  Vortonitch  could  be  accounted  for; 
Gerald  Stratton  alone  realising  him  as  a  personality,  a  real 
human  being. 

He  was,  in  some  ways  entirely  diverse  from  Stratton  or  the 
General,  the  most  distinguished-looking  man  there;  but  he 
was  wrongly  dressed,  and  no  grade  of  shabbiness,  of  the  right 
sort  of  style,  could  have  so  completely  condemned  him. 

Crossing  what  seemed  like  an  interminable  desert  of  turf 
and  terrace,  towards  the  group  at  tea  beneath  the  trees  to 
one  side  of  the  tennis-court,  he  himself  realised  the  wrongness 
with  that  sense  of  shame  and  fury  that  nothing  apart  from 
dress  can  well  arouse  in  the  human  breast;  a  wrongness  in 
every  way  subtle  and  puzzling.  For  what  would  have  been 
good  enough,  in  fact  the  very  thing,  for  a  royal  garden-party 
— and  oddly  enough,  that  was  the  only  entertainment  of  this 
sort  with  which  he  had  been,  hitherto,  acquainted — ought  to 
have  more  than  served  here.  But  it  didn't.  His  get-up  was, 
among  all  these  men  in  white  flannels  and  light  tweeds,  an 
error  of  taste  almost  more  fatal  than  any  crime. 

"Who,  in  the  name  of  all  that's  holy !"  began  Sir 

Harry,  while  Betty  Henderson's  sharp  tongue  parodied: 

"Why  do  you  walk  on  the  lawn  in  gloves? 
Oh,  black-coated  person  whom  nobody  loves!" 

"Hush!  Laura's  singing-mistress's  friend — the  friend  of 
Laura's  singing-mistress,"  murmured  Lady  Creichton  con- 
fusedly, and  was  moving  forward  with  outstretched  hand, 
when  Laura  herself  did  the  unforgivable  thing,  and  with 
nothing  more  than  a  backward  word  to  her  partner,  deserted 
the  tennis-court  in  the  very  middle  of  a  set. 

Vortonitch  could  scarcely  have  realised  all  that  this 
meant;  but  he  did  realise  the  courage,  and  it  angered  him. 
Why  should  anyone  be  brave  for  him? — he  who  had  travelled 
more,  seen  more,  knew  more — yes,  knew  more — by  God,  the 
things  he  knew — than  most.  The  sense  of  his  knowledge, 
his  power,  flamed  up  in  him — flushing  his  cheek,  brightening 
his  eye. 

Laura  was  very  erect,  her  cheeks  faintly  flushed,  as  she 
introduced  him  to  them  all,  and  stood  over  the  tea-table, 
pouring  out  tea,  while  Lady  Creichton  ran  on  with  something 


144  LAURA  CREICHTON 

perfectly  unintelligible  to  the  effect  of  Madame  having  taught 
her  two  nieces,  and  her  own  youngest  sister — as  well  as  her 
daughter.  But  a  man's  teaching — of  course  that  was  dif- 
ferent. It  was  so  difficult  to  know — with  young  girls  and  all 
— and  a  man's  voice  so  different — "don't  you  think?" 
Perhaps,  later  on — of  course,  later  on,  he  would  sing  to  them, 
and  then  she  could  tell  everyone  she  knew  .  .  . 

Sing  to  them!  Was  the  woman  mad?  Were  they  all 
mad?  wondered  Vortonitch.  Sing  to  them,  sing  to  them! 
Why,  he  could  have  killed  them! 

The  three  left  stranded  on  the  nearer  tennis-court  were 
calling  to  Laura: 

"Laura,  Laura,  hurry  up!" 

"Oh,  Laura,  brace  up  and  come  along!" 

But  Laura  was  adamant.  "You  must  get  someone  else. 
Marjorie,  you  cut  in." 

Marjorie,  however,  all  eyes  and  ears — a  stocky,  highly- 
coloured  girl  whom  Vortonitch  was  quite  unable  to  place — 
refused  to  do  anything  of  the  sort,  and  it  was  Mary  Henderson 
who,  good-naturedly  enough,  put  down  her  cup  and  volun- 
teered to  fill  the  gap. 

Vortonitch  seemed  to  see  the  whole  thing  like  one  of  those 
small  brightly-coloured  paintings  upon  glass.  The  insolently 
smooth  green  lawns;  the  light-coloured  dresses,  the  parasols, 
the  white  flannels,  the  tea-table  with  its  silver;  and  Laura  as 
part  of  it  all,  completely  alien  from  himself.  Good  God! 
these  people,  so  smoothed-out  and  bland! 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Grobo's  lust  of  killing  took 
possession  of  him,  for  its  own  sake,  not,  as  it  had  been,  a 
means  to  an  end;  while  he  saw  himself  as  a  creature  apart, 
Deity  or  devil,  apart  in  body  and  mind,  in  every  thought  and 
feeling;  but,  above  all — ludicrously,  agonisingly  above  all 
in  his  clothes,  the  shiny  blackness  of  his  new  top-hat,  his 
black  cut-away  coat,  his  striped  grey  trousers,  his  patent- 
leather  boots.  And  yet,  for  all  that,  the  arbiter  of  life  or 
death.  If  he  had  possessed  a  bomb  then — and  Grobo  in- 
evitably carried  something  of  the  sort — Grobo,  Grobo!  how 
he  loved  him,  for  he  was  of  his  own,  was  always  prepared  for 
anything — he  would  have  thrown  it.  He  saw  himself  a  black 
note  of  exclamation,  if  only  for  one  moment;  the  rest  of  the 
party  mere  fragments  of  humanity,  torn,  indecent  and  utterly 
without  dignity — for  what  can  there  be  to  a  flying  arm  or  leg, 
however  well-turned,  a  man's  brains,  once  they're  out  of  his 
head? 


LAURA  CREICHTON  145 

"Sugar  and  cream?" 

"  If  you  please,  Mademoiselle." 

He  was  taking  his  tea  and  some  thin  brown  bread-and- 
butter  from  Laura's  hand:  Laura  all  in  white,  with  a  touch  of 
the  palest  pink  in  her  hat,  the  broad  brim  shading  her  eyes. 

Lady  Creichton  had  moved  away  to  greet  a  new-comer, 
and  Laura,  standing  by  the  tea-table,  offered  him  a  chair:  as 
though  he  could  sit  down  while  she  stood!  All  courage  and 
eagerness,  she  was  yet  too  young  and  untried  for  any  savoir 
faire,  and  it  was  Stratton  who  came  to  the  rescue. 

"Laura,  are  you  going  to  have  another  tea?  I  am — and 
quite  unblushing  about  it,  too!  Let's  seize  what  we  want 
and  camp  on  those  chairs  further  back  under  the  trees;  then 
I  may  have  a  chance  of  getting  to  know  your  friend." 

Once  established,  he  turned  to  Vortonitch:  "I'm  a  very 
old  friend  of  Miss  Creichton's,  you  know.  Almost" — he  had 
been  going  to  say  "  a  sort  of  uncle,"  but  for  some  reason  he 
changed  it — clumsily  for  him — to  "  almost  her  oldest — what 
shall  we  say? — adorer?  You  are  a  musician,  I  think,  Mr. 
Vortonitch?" 

"No;  I  have  no  tricks." 

"  But  you  are  such  a  race  of  music-lovers  that  I'm  certain 
you  play  or  sing.  Come  now!"  Stratton's  courtesy  seemed 
to  smooth  itself  out  under  the  other  man's  rudeness.  "  I 
really  believe  that  it's  a  birthright  with  you  and  your  country- 
men, native  as  the  air  you  breathe.  A  trait  that  has  been 
nationalised  by  suffering,  like  most  of  the  other  arts." 

"And  of  what  nationality  do  you  take  me  to  be,  may  I 
ask?" 

"I  don't  think  I  can  be  mistaken.  I  know  how  dis- 
gracefully ignorant  we  all  are  of  other  nations;  but,  after  all, 
I've  lived  in  Poland,  learnt  to  speak  its  language,  though  not 
alas!  to  write  it  as  it  ought  to  be  written — that's  completely 
beyond  me,  and  I  confess  it.  Why,  even  among  your  own 
people,  letter -writing  in  your  own  language  is  an  acquired  art, 
isn't  it?" 

"I  scarcely  know;  I  have  lived  in  Poland  so  little." 
Vortonitch's  tone  was  distinctly  more  amiable,  and  Stratton 
pushed  his  advantage  for  all  it  was  worth.  It  would  have 
been  impossible  for  him  to  say  how  far  he  liked  or  disliked  this 
man  for  himself;  reading  in  his  face,  as  he  did,  intelligence, 
ardour,  arrogance,  and  a  sort  of  courage;  crossed  and  re- 
crossing  with  those  fine,  almost  imperceptible  lines  eloquent 
of  a  life  of  restlessness  and  constant  strain;  marked  with 


146  LAURA  CREICHTON 

passion,  but,  for  all  that,  far  from  sensual :  the  face  of  a  man 
typical  of  that  race  which  had  always  held  his  interest  and 
sympathy  above  all  others.  Anywhere  else  he  would  have 
been  almost  too  ready  to  like  Vortonitch,  for  this,  if  for  nothing 
else — that  ridiculous  leaning,  which  he  shared  with  Laura, 
towards  the  oppressed.  But  here,  framed  in  Laura's  regard, 
here  in  the  midst  of  the  family  which  belonged  to  his  world 
so  completely  that  it  was  almost  his  own,  he  was  just  enough 
to  realise  the  impossibility  of  a  fair  judgment.  The  only  thing 
which  remained  was  to  try  to  get  to  know  the  man  so  far  as 
possible;  to  master  him  by  knowledge,  if  not  by  liking,  and 
so,  in  some  sort  of  way,  to  standardise  this  old  friendship  of 
Laura's. 

"  Of  all  men,  the  men  of  your  nationality  must  realise  the 
affairs  of  their  country  most  plainly  when  they  are  away  from 
it.  At  home,  the  eye  is,  must  be,  caught,  dazzled,  or  maddened 
by  the  glare  upon  either  horizon — Russian  or  German.  Tell 
me,  now.  .  .  ." 

He  began  to  ask  a  few  questions,  political  and  yet  non- 
committal; while  Vortonitch,  sensitive  to  any  atmosphere, 
feeling  his  tense  nerves  slacken,  answered  quietly  and  reason- 
ably enough;  volunteered  information,  still  quiet  and  well- 
balanced,  speaking  as  man  to  man;  until  Laura,  who  had 
been  sitting  painfully  upright  in  her  chair,  leant  back  with  a 
little  sigh  of  relief,  unclasping  her  hands  and  watching  the 
dappled  light  and  shadow,  gold  and  grey,  of  the  trees  play 
over  them,  lying  loosely  in  her  white  lap. 

There  were  so  many  things  that  this  lover  of  hers  knew. 
Oh,  but  he  was  wonderful;  and  of  course  Stratton  realised  it! 
Now  and  then  she  glanced  towards  him  to  see  if  he  were  not 
surprised,  as  she  was  innocently  sure  that  he  must  be,  by  such 
an  array  of  statistics,  dates,  such  an  unparalleled  knowledge 
of  history. 

The  strain  of  awaiting  Vortonitch,  of  ranging  herself  by 
his  side,  was  over;  his  own  difficult  mood  past,  or  so  it  seemed; 
and  she  felt  herself  bathed  in  that  sort  of  peace  which  comes 
with  the  relaxation  of  effort.  If  only  it  could  have  gone  on 
for  ever!  But  it  couldn't.  It  was,  indeed,  so  insecure  a  thing 
that,  in  common  with  Vortonitch's  tractability,  it  snapped  at 
the  first  moment  that  Marjorie  moved  towards  them  from  the 
group  at  the  edge  of  the  tennis-courts;  shouting  in  her  usual 
fashion,  saving  herself  the  trouble  of  a  few  extra  steps: 

"Lolly,  Lolly!     Mother  wants  you." 

As  the  three  rose  and  moved  forward,  Laura  between  the 


LAURA  CREICHTON  147 

two   men,   she   met   them  half-way,   ranged   herself   at   Vor- 
tonitch's  side,  staring  at  him  curiously. 

"Have  you  known  my  sister  long?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mademoiselle;  you  have  the  ad- 
vantage of  me." 

The  girl  flushed  under  his  gaze.  She  could  be,  had  meant 
to  be,  insolent,  but  not  like  this.  She  had  a  sort  of  feeling  as 
though  this  man's  brilliant  eyes  were  stripping  her,  holding 
her  up  naked,  a  thing  of  derision. 

"  I'm  Laura's  sister." 

"  Still,     Mademoiselle,     I'm     afraid     I     have     not     the 

pleasure "     His  slight  gesture  seemed  to  say,  "Who  in 

the  world  are  you,  and  who  in  the  world  are  you  talking  of?" 

Marjorie's  half -defiant  jerk  of  the  head,  past  him  and 
towards  Laura;  the  clumsy,  "Hers,"  was  all  schoolgirl,  and 
a  triumph  for  him,  as  was  his  response,  coolly  contemptuous: 

"Miss  Creichton's  sister!  Indeed,  I  should  not  have 
thought  it!"  His  surprised  glance  seemed  to  pick  out  each 
separate  weakness  in  her  personal  appearance:  her  short 
neck,  that  unfortunate  spot  upon  her  chin;  and  she  crimsoned 
as  he  turned  aside  and  spoke  to  Laura;  waiting  until  he 
could  attract  his  hostess's  attention  sufficiently  to  wish  her 
good-bye. 

For,  whatever  might  have  been  Lady  Creichton's  reason 
for  summoning  her  elder  daughter — and  Vortonitch  half 
suspected  that  it  was  nothing  more  than  a  fabrication  of  this, 
to  him,  curiously  repellent  young  girl's — she  was  in  no  hurry 
now,  entangled  in  a  circuitous  conversation  with  Mrs.  Hender- 
son, a  reminiscence  of  last  week,  a  resume  of  that  afternoon, 
plans  for  the  future,  and  comments  upon  the  uncertainty 
occasioned  by  all  the  "  dreadful  things  which  seem  to  be 
happening  nowadays." 

Once  again  that  sense  of  exasperation  which  ha4  overcome 
him  upon  his  arrival  rose  to  the  surface;  he  remembered  the 
incongruity  of  his  dress:  imagined  that  Lady  Creichton  kept 
him  waiting  like  this  out  of  some  sort  of  petty  malice:  that 
everyone  present  had  conspired  to  insult  him,  first  by  their 
cool  glances  and  now  by  their  disregard. 

Sir  Harry  Creichton  was  walking  to  and  fro  along  the  path 
under  the  terrace  wall,  talking  to  one  of  his  friends;  there 
were  two  sets  of  tennis  in  progress,  while  the  rest  of  the  party 
had  drawn  apart  in  a  little  confidential  group,  leaning  forward 
towards  each  other,  chatting  and  laughing. 

The  shadows  had   not   yet   begun   to   lengthen,   but   the 


148  LAURA  CREICHTON 

garden  was  already  veiled  in  a  faint  film  of  sunlit  mist,  which 
showed  the  midges  like  motes  of  gold:  a  man  with  a  hose  was 
watering  one  of  the  wide  borders,  and  the  air  was  full  of  the 
scent  of  moisture  upon  sun-drenched  flowers:  pinks,  phloxes, 
tobacco-plants.  The  lawns  themselves  were  like  green  velvet 
carpets,  across  which  Parker  and  another  maid,  in  starched 
white  caps  and  aprons,  were  bearing  away  the  tea  things. 

To  Vortonitch's  mind,  in  Vortonitch's  memory,  the  effect 
was  that  of  an  almost  aggressive  beauty,  peace,  and  luxury, 
which  made  him  ache  with  longing,  and  at  the  same  time 
whipped  him  into  a  savage  fury;  awaking  in  him  a  wild  desirp 
for  wreckage. 

The  whole  thing  was  an  insult  rammed  down  the  throat  of 
all  those  multitudes  who  formed  so  much  larger  a  part  of  the 
world;  overworked,  diseased,  starved,  suffering,  ridden  by  fear 
and  care:  a  challenge  and  an  insult,  a  red  rag  in  the  face  of 
men  like  himself,  Grobo,  Stein,  all  those  others. 

As  Lady  Creichton  turned  to  him  with  cool  extended  hand, 
and  some  unintelligible  murmur  of  "  pupils,"  he  felt  as  though 
he  could  have  ground  her,  her  fragile,  well-preserved  beauty 
— delicate  lavender  muslin,  lace,  discreet  jewels,  pearls  and 
amethysts — into  the  ground  with  the  heel  of  his  boot.  A 
sudden  idea  of  her  as  a  mother-in-law,  his  mother-in-law, 
came  into  his  head,  and  it  was  all  he  could  do  to  prevent 
himself  from  laughing  aloud,  savagely. 

What  a  crew!  This  bread-and-butter  miss  at  his  side; 
this  inane  woman,  the  epitome  of  that  complete  parasite, 
"the  lady";  Sir  Harry  Creichton's  erect  back,  so  pointedly 
moving  away  from  him;  that  other  man  with  his  almost  ultra- 
refined,  delicate  face,  standing  at  Laura's  elbow:  all  alike 
chafed  him  beyond  bearing,  the  last  named  above  all,  repre- 
senting as  he  did  the  one  characteristic  which  Vortonitch 
really  respected — intellect. 

"  I'll  come  with  you  and  show  you  the  short  cut,"  said 
Laura;  upon  which  Stratton,  marvelling  at  her  dignity  and 
independence,  disturbed  and  anxious,  helped  on  by  a  dis- 
tracted glance  from  Lady  Creichton — a  glance  which  said  as 
plainly  as  words,  "  I  always  depended  upon  you ;  you  must 
help  me" — volunteered  to  accompany  them. 

Once  at  the  tennis-courts,  lying  beyond  the  first  lawn,  the 
cedar,  the  terrace  and  sunk  fence,  the  station  was  most  con- 
veniently reached  by  a  gate  in  the  high  paling  at  the  bottom  of 
the  orchard;  for  suburban  as  "The  House"  might  be,  there 
was  the  illusion  of  complete  country,  everything  in  little: 


LAURA  CREICHTON  149 

while  even  beyond  this  boundary  the  houses  were  deeply 
veiled  with  trees. 

As  they  moved  down  the  path  and  across  the  orchard 
together,  the  dew  already  wet  upon  their  shoes,  Laura  walked 
between  the  two  men,  Vortonitch  a  pace  in  front;  swaggering 
and  ill-tempered,  and  yet,  as  Stratton  realised,  still  amazingly 
graceful  and  attractive. 

At  the  gate  they  paused  for  an  awkward  moment,  which 
was  broken  by  Laura,  turning,  facing  Stratton  with  steady 
eyes,  an  amazing  air  of  certainty: 

"  Stratty  dear,  I'm  going  to  the  station  with  Mr.  Vor- 
tonitch. Will  you  go  back  and  talk  to  mother?" 

"But — Lolly !"  He  was  absolutely  taken  aback, 

frightened.  The  child  Laura,  like  this!  Like  a  mother-bird! 
It  was  astounding;  awful  to  think  of  the  intensity  of  feeling 
which  must  have  gone  to  the  steadying  of  her  to  such  coolness 
and  decision.  Still,  there  was  nothing  for  it;  he  realised  that, 
and  smiled  and  nodded. 

Not  for  worlds  would  he  have  shaken  hands  with  the  other 
man;  he  had  gone  out  of  his  way  to  be  nice  to  him,  as  Laura's 
protege;  but  now — now!  Why,  the  whole  thing  was  un- 
believable! It  oughtn't  to  be  allowed!  What  were  they  all 
thinking  of?  A  man  of  this  sort — this  sort!  He  knew  the 
type — how  well  he  knew  it! — had  in  some  sort  of  way  sym- 
pathised with  it,  but  not  like  this — good  heavens!  no,  not  like 
this — touching  his  own  personal  life.  Lolly  Creichton,  Lolly, 
of  all  people!  Lolly,  who  from  the  first  moment  of  this  man's 
appearance  upon  the  scene,  had  stood  by  him;  with  no  vulgar 
air  of  possession,  but  with  an  apparently  serene  and  matter-of- 
fact  loyalty :  as  though  to  say,  as  plainly  as  words,  "  It  is  us 
two  against  the  world,  and  I  don't  mind  who  knows  it." 

What  an  amazing  thing  is  the  effect  of  civilisation!  Here 
was  Laura,  with  her  outward  serenity,  her  primitive  passions 
unrealised,  but  still  there:  Stratton  himself,  equally  urbane, 
and  yet  feeling,  as  he  did  feel,  and  had  never  felt  before, 
jealous,  suspicious;  turning  away,  bowing,  smiling — he 
thought  of  the  little  men  sold  by  the  peddlers  in  the  Strand, 
taking  off  their  hats,  bowing,  worked  by  a  string  somewhere  at 
the  back  of  them — leaving  her  alone  with  this  "  damned  foreign 
adventurer";  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  the  word  "foreign" 
constituted  a  slur  in  his  mind. 

Beyond  the  fence  was  a  narrow  private  road,  almost  a  lane, 
with  grass  at  either  side  of  it,  overhung  by  trees.  As  the  gate 
slammed  to  behind  Vortonitch  and  his  companion,  shutting 


150  LAURA  CREICHTON 

Stratton  away — in  outer  darkness  or  Paradise,  Vortonitch 
himself,  with  contempt  and  envy  see-sawing  within  him,  could 
scarcely  have  said  which — he  turned  to  Laura,  his  face  drawn 
and  aged  with  bitterness. 

"Well?" 

"Well  .  .  .  Why,  Paul,  what  is  it?"  She  was  anxious, 
puzzled,  her  delicate  brows  drawn  together. 

"Pretty,  wasn't  it?" 

"Paul!     What  do  you  mean?" 

"A  dancing-bear,  was  that  it? — my  part  among  all  your 
fine  friends!" 

"My  fine  friends!"  She  knew  that  he  was  unhappy,  that 
something  had  gone  wrong,  but,  for  all  that,  she  was  utterly 
bewildered  by  his  tone.  "Paul,  how  can  you!  What  do 
you  mean?  Just  ordinary  people " 

"Ordinary  people!"  He  laughed,  rudely  enough.  "Do 
you  imagine  that  the  rest  of  the  world  is  like  that?  That 
people — real  people — move  like  that,  talk  like  that,  look  like 
that,  dress  like  that?  Puppets  dangled  on  a  wire  by  God 
knows  what!  Half-alive,  inane,  simpering!" 

"They  are  my  people."  Laura's  face  was  white,  her  eyes 
almost  black,  as  they  were  apt  to  be  in  moments  of  intense 
feeling.  "Paul,  you  must  be  mad!  They're  my  people;  and 
because  they're  not  yours " 

"Thank  heaven  they're  not  mine!  Could  they  be? 
Your  mother,  your  father!  The  wonder  is  that  you  exist  at 
all;  even  as  much  as  you  do  exist — half-alive,  like  the  rest  of 
them.  'Very  pl-e-eased,'"  he  drawled,  '"Very  n-i-ice!' 
Your  father!  Talk  of  Aaron's  rod  blossoming  .  .  .  My  God, 
nothing  to  the  wonder  of  such  a  stick  being  human  enough  to 
possess  a  daughter.  Your  mother!  What  did  they  think  I 
was?  What  did  they  expect  me  to  do?  Tell  me  that.  Get- 
ting me  pupils!  Dancing  master,  singing-master — what  the 
devil  did  you  make  me  out  to  be?  Ashamed  of  knowing  me 
as  a  man — just  a  man,  eh?  Passing  me  off  as  anything  to 
save  your  vanity?  What  were  you  at?  What  did  you 
want?" 

"That's  enough,  Paul  .  .  .  Don't,  oh  don't!" 

Quite  suddenly  her  pride  broke,  and  she  turned  away,  her 
hand  upon  the  latch  of  the  gate. 

She  was  going  back  into  her  own  world,  her  enchanted 
garden.  A  wild  fear  swept  over  Vortonitch  that  she  was 
going  forever,  that  he  would  never  see  her  again;  but  for  all 
that,  he  could  not  stop  himself;  raged  on: 


LAURA  CREICHTON  151 

"What  do  you  think  I  came  for?  What  do  you  imagine 
it  all  meant?  You  and  I — you  and  I!  That  I  should  trouble 
myself  to  trail  down  here  to  see  you — this  precious  family  of 
yours — for  any  possible  reason  save  to  make  use  of  you?  By 
God,  that's  good!" 

He  saw  her  raise  her  shoulders,  stoop  her  head  lower, 
shuddering  away  from  him;  realised  how  he  hurt,  his  cruel 
triumph  mingled  with  a  sort  of  agony:  he  wanted  her  to  turn 
and  defy  him,  or  entreat  him,  so  that  he  might  take  her  in  his 
arms,  forgive  or  be  forgiven. 

Damn  it  all,  but  he  would  make  her  turn!  A  sort  of  doubt 
as  to  whether  it  were  really  himself  speaking  swept  over  him: 
if  she  turned,  he  would  open  his  arms;  she  would  run  to  them, 
and  they  would  laugh  together,  laugh  and  cry.  But  she  did 
not  turn,  and  he  raged  on: 

"To  help  me  about  'pupils'!  What  sort  of  twaddle's 
that,  eh?  Have  they  any  idea  what  I  could  teach  their  little 
baa-lambs?  What  I  would  teach  them?  My  God!  the 
damned,  simpering  superiority  of  such  people.  .  .  .  You  and 
your  relations!" 

Still  she  did  not  speak,  could  not,  indeed.  The  tears  were 
streaming  down  her  face:  there  was  a  stupid  little  patent 
catch  on  the  gate  at  which  she  fumbled  blindly.  Her  girlish 
dignity  was  gone;  she  was  like  a  child;  her  one  idea  to  run 
away  somewhere  out  of  sight  of  everyone,  where  she  could  cry 
in  peace  and  unashamed.  As  she  bent  her  head  the  hot  tears 
dropped  onto  her  neck,  ran  down  her  bosom  inside  her  soft 
white  blouse. 

"You  imagine  I  came  down  here  because  I  loved  you, 
because  I  wanted  to  see  you:  because  I  loved  you  as  a  woman, 
a  real  person!  Why,  there's  not  a  prostitute  in  London  that's 
not  more  of  a  woman  than  you  are!" 

But  she  did  not  turn,  even  at  that;  though  he  could  see 
her  shoulders  drawn  closer  together,  as  if  shrinking  away 
under  a  blow,  a  rain  of  blows. 

Ah,  but  he  would  make  her  turn,  whether  she  liked  it  or 
not — face  it  out. 

"Look  at  me.  Come,  now,  where  are  your  manners? 
Look  at  me,  while  I  thank  you.  For  you've  been  of  infinite 
value  to  me,  Miss  Creichton;  taught  me  more  than  you  know. 
But  the  game's  at  an  end,  with  its  boredom,  its  inanity.  I'm 
not  the  sort  of  man  to  feed  my  brains  on  a  perpetual  regimen 
of  milk  and  water.  You'll  see  that  if  you  look  at  me,"  he 
blustered.  "Look  now,  look!" 


152  LAURA  CREICHTON 

She  had  one  shoulder  against  the  door,  pushing  it,  and  he 
caught  her  arm. 

"Look  at  me!"  he  shouted;  and  was  amazed  at  the 
fierceness  of  her  answer,  as  the  slight  catch  gave  way,  and  she 
wrenched  herself  free. 

"No,  no!     Never  again!     Never  again!" 

There  was  a  key  on  the  inner  side  of  the  door,  and  he 
heard  it  turn  in  the  lock,  standing  stupidly  staring  at  those 
rough  brown  planks  which  had  quite  suddenly  gathered  to 
themselves  a  significance  more  spiritual  than  actual:  the 
impression  of  an  inexorable  barrier,  extending  to  eternity, 
dropped  down  between  the  worst,  and  all  that  stood  for,  the 
best  of  himself. 

"Well,  that's  finished,  anyhow!  Thank  God  that's  over 
and  done  with!"  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  a  little 
laugh,  glancing  to  the  right  and  left  along  the  tall  fence, 
narrowing  off  into  a  slender  perspective  at  either  end,  for  the 
boundaries  of  the  Creichton  property  spread  wide.  Even  then, 
through  his  childish  pretence  of  relief  and  contempt,  he  was 
conscious  of  an  impression  of  that  fence  so  intense  that  he 
felt  as  though  he  could  never  be  free  of  it;  that  it  would  come 
between  himself  and  every  turn  of  life;  confronting  him  upon 
the  boundaries  of  death;  so  unimposing,  and  yet — for  all 
that — so  immensely  significant. 


CHAPTER  XVI 


"ANYTHING  more  like  a  bit  of  chewed  string!"  was 
Marjorie's  comment  as  her  sister  came  downstairs  and  joined 
the  rest  of  them  crossing  down  the  hall  on  their  way  to  dinner 
that  night;  uttered  under  her  breath,  for  despite  her  faults 
there  was  a  standard  of  sisterly  loyalty,  and  some  affection. 

Laura  did  indeed  look  wretched,  with  her  face  drawn  and 
white,  dark  shadows  round  her  eyes;  a  cruel  prophecy  of 
what  any  long  term  of  anxious  years  might  bring  to  her,  as 
Gerald  Stratton  thought,  with  a  sense  of  impotent  rage. 

She  would  have  given  anything  to  have  stayed  in  her  own 
room,  turned  her  face  to  the  wall,  as  some  girls  might  have 
done,  though  it  would  have  depended  less  upon  the  in- 
dividual than  the  family;  for  in  the  face  of  Marjorie  and  her 
curiosity,  Lady  Creichton  with  her  stream  of  comment,  and 
the  General — carrying  as  he  did  the  impression  of  red  tape 
stiffened  with  whalebone  into  the  very  bosom  of  his  family — it 
was  far  easier  to  endure  than  to  give  in;  and  in  any  case  there 
would  be  the  next  day  to  face;  the  day  after  that — innumer- 
able, unending  days. 

If  only,  only  they  would  have  left  her  alone!  But  she  might 
have  known  that  they  couldn't.  Better,  perhaps,  to  have  risked 
a  locked  door,  for,  after  all,  why  should  they? — a  family  with 
whom  free  discussion  of  anything  concerning  any  single  one 
of  their  number  was  as  natural  as  the  air  they  breathed. 

It  began  with  the  fish,  and  a — "  Can't  say  I  think  much  of 
your  new  friend,  Laura,"  from  the  General. 

"  I  always  do  feel  it's  a  mistaken  kindness  to  ask  people  of 
that  sort;  it  only  makes  them  uncomfortable.  Don't  you 

think,  Laura  dear "  Cousin  Ethel,  who  used  the  house  as 

a  sort  of  jumping-off  place  for  London  shopping  and  visiting, 
paid  for  her  board  by  being  bright  and  interested  in  every- 
thing, began  to  speak;  then  drew  up  with  a  feeling  of  not 
being  quite  sure  of  her  ground.  Of  course  Harry's  family, 
which  was  her  family,  just  didn't  know  "  people  of  that  sort," 
but  Lady  Creichton's  relations  were  different,  real  Londoners; 
and  there  is  no  doubt  about  it,  London  is  mixed. 

153 


154  LAURA  CREICHTON 

"His  clothes!  Oh,  my  hat!"  cried  Marjorie.  "Clothes 
like  that  at  a  tennis-party ! " 

It  seemed  as  though  they  were  all  talking  at  once:  laughing 
at  the  stranger,  picking  him  to  bits,  like  a  colony  of  rooks 
discovering  a  stranger  in  its  midst:  Marjorie  and  Betty 
Henderson  leading,  rivals  in  those  personalities  so  often  mis- 
taken for  wit;  followed  by  a  couple  of  cadets  and  another  girl 
— who  had  stayed  on  to  dinner,  as  people  had  a  habit  of  doing 
in  that  hospitable  house — for  no  other  reason  than  that  it 
made  them  feel  funny  and  in  the  swim  of  things:  Philip 
Henderson  alone,  of  all  the  young  people,  remained  silent,  his 
reddened  face  bent  low  over  his  plate. 

Gerald  Stratton,  who  had  also  remained,  would  have  given 
anything  to  have  been  able  to  say,  "I  like  Laura's  friend"; 
even,  "You  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about — he's  a 
very  interesting  fellow,  more  brains  than  any  of  you  young 
people  put  together" — any  thing  like  that.  But  a  sort  of 
stiff  awkwardness  held  him  back,  more  of  the  man  and  less  of 
the  pure  intellectual  than  he  had  ever  been  before. 

Dinner  was  later  than  usual,  and  at  the  end  of  that  course 
the  lights  were  turned  on.  He  was  sitting  opposite  Laura,  but 
there  was  a  group  of  four  tall  flower-vases  between  them,  and 
he  could  scarcely  see  her  ravaged  young  face  until  she  jerked 
up  her  head  suddenly,  with  the  air  of  a  baited  animal. 

"  I  think  I'd  better  tell  you "  she  began. 

But  the  young  ones  laughed  her  down:  "Laura's  smit!" 

"He's  done  a  click " 

One  of  the  silly  laughing  boys  raised  his  glass: 
'To  the  Countess  Popponoff!" 

'The  Countess  Popponoff!" 

'When  is  it  going  to  be,  eh,  Laura?" 

'Ask  us  to  the  wedding,  Miss  Creichton." 

'  He  carries  a  knife  in  his  boot." 

'I'm  sure  he  does!  That's  it — there  was  a  little  kink  in 
his  trouser-leg." 

"  Seriously,  Laura,"  interposed  Sir  Harry,  "  it's  not  the 
sort  of  time  to  go  picking  up  with  casual  foreigners.  Here, 
with  my  position  and  all,  one  can't  be  too  careful.  Of  course, 
I'm  sure  you  meant  nothing,  and  we  all  know  poor  old 
Madame;  but,  all  the  same  .  .  .  What  do  you  say,  Stratton? 
We've  been  too  hospitable  in  the  past,  as  a  nation,  eh?  That's 
the  fact  of  the  matter." 

"I    think,    perhaps,    if    Lolly    chose    her    friends " 

Stratton  was  beginning  miserably,  insincerely,  for  of  course 


LAURA  CREICHTON  155 

one  did  not  really  choose  one's  friends,  who  came  and  went, 
suitable  or  unsuitable,  as  the  case  might  be;  dropping  "as 
the  gentle  rain  from  heaven." 

"  Did  you  hear  Betty — '  Oh,  why  do  you  walk  on  the 
lawn  in  gloves ?" 

"Lolly's  blushing  .  .  .  Lolly  .  .  ."  Of  course  one  did 
blush  when  one  was  chaffed  like  this.  One  of  the  boys 
pretended  to  warm  his  hand  at  her  face,  supposedly  glowing: 
not  a  soul  among  them,  unless  it  were  her  mother,  realising 
its  fierce  whiteness,  the  lines  which  strengthened  it,  pushing 
forward  the  soft  young  jaw. 

"  Don't  be  so  silly,"  interposed  Lady  Creichton.  "  Don't 
mind  them,  Laura.  It  was  very  kind  of  you  to  think  of  asking 
him.  I  thought  he  was  a  very  gentlemanly,  quiet  sort  of 
young  fellow " 

"There,  Miss  Creichton!" 

"There,  Lolly!" 

"  Smooth  her  down,  eh?" 

"  Of  course  there's  no  question  of  friendship.  Laura  knows 
how  to  keep  people  in  their  place " 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  thought?  I  thought  he  was  the 
piano-tuner."  There  was  a  burst  of  laughter  at  this,  and 
someone  capped  it. 

"  I  thought  that  there  must  be  a  funeral  on  somewhere, 
and  he'd  mistaken  the  house." 

"Don't  you  think  that's  enough  about  Laura's  friend?" 
interposed  Sir  Harry,  rather  testily;  for  there  was  something 
he  wanted  to  discuss  with  Stratton,  and  one  could  hardly 
hear  oneself  speak. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  call  him  Laura's  friend;  because 
Laura  asked  the  young  man  down  here  out  of  kindness  .  .  . 
Gerry,  they'll  never  pass  the  port  unless  you  ask  for  it — such 
a  pandemonium!  Harry  .  .  ." 

"Poor  little  Laura!     Dear  little  Laura!" 

"Laura  had  a  little  lamb " 

" '  Oh,  why  do  you  walk ' " 

"Stop  it!" 

The  inane  repetition,  the  laughter  and  chatter  were 
broken:  so  oddly  that  it  seemed  as  though  the  tumult  must 
have  been  something  material,  like  a  large  glass,  shattered  by 
a  blow,  a  word. 

In  the  sudden  silence  they  gaped  at  Laura — Laura! 
Laura! — standing  upright,  her  slim  fingers  resting  on  the 
table. 


156  LAURA  CREICHTON 

"Laura  dear!"    It  was  her  mother  who  spoke. 

"  It's  no  good  saying  '  Laura '  like  that.  You're  all  alike — 
you  think  of  no  one  but  yourselves — you  know  nothing  of 
anyone  apart  from  your  own  sort.  Because  a  man's  dressed 
differently— 

"Laura,  be  silent!"  It  was  Sir  Harry's  parade  voice, 
level  and  biting,  and  for  a  moment  Laura  drew  herself  together 
under  it,  as  though  to  attention. 

She  must  have  looked  strange,  unlike  herself;  there  must 
have  been  something  amazing  in  the  very  fact  of  her,  Laura, 
as  the  centre  of  that  sort  of  storm  in  which  Marjorie  had  so 
often  figured,  for  a  silence  fell  upon  them  all,  and  they  bent 
their  heads,  crumbling  their  bread,  without  so  much  as  a 
glance  at  one  another,  while  she  stood  motionless,  speechless, 
for  so  long  that  her  father,  with  a  shrug  and  motion  of  his 
chin  towards  his  wife,  as  though  to  say,  "  She's  just  too  old 
to  be  packed  off  to  bed;  you  must  deal  with  her  later,"  was 
leaning  forward  towards  Stratton,  beginning  something  about 
a  letter  in  that  morning's  Times,  when  she  was  out  with  it, 
dropping  it  among  them  like  a  bomb.  .  .  .  Yes,  a  bomb,  in 
those  days  of  bombs. 

"  I  love  him,  and  I'm  going  to  marry  him,"  she  said:  just 
that: 

"  I  love  him,  and  I'm  going  to  marry  him  " — then  turned 
and  walked  out  of  the  room. 

Marjorie  was  on  her  feet  in  a  moment;  but  her  father 
snapped  at  her,  "Sit  down!"  and  she  collapsed  suddenly; 
rising  again,  as  he  glanced  at  his  wife,  with  some  grim  sugges- 
tion of  "  the  banquet "  being  over ;  and  they  all  trailed  from 
the  room. 

Once  free,  she  raced  upstairs,  tried  the  handle  of  Laura's 
door,  and,  rinding  it  locked,  knocked  softly,  almost  as  though 
there  was  someone  ill  inside  it. 

"Lolly,  Lolly,  let  me  in!" 

"  I  don't  want  anyone.    Go  away,  please." 

"Lolly,  darling  old  Lolly!" 

The  door  was  opened  at  that,  and  they  were  in  each 
other's  arms. 

"Lolly,  Lolly,  I  was  an  awful  beast.  I  never  thought — I 
never  knew.  You  might  have  told  me.  .  .  .  I'm  sure  he's 
awfully  clever,  and  romantic,  and  all  that.  .  .  .  Lolly,  to 
stand  up  to  dad  like  that!  The  nerve!  You  poor  old 
thing!  Of  course  you  can't  marry  him — you  had  us  on 
there.  All  the  same,  my  hat,  what  a  nerve!" 


LAURA  CREICHTON  157 

"Why  can't  I  marry  him?"  Laura  drew  a  little  apart. 
She  had  abandoned  herself  to  the  caresses;  but  for  once  it 
was  Marjorie  who  caressed,  wept  with  excitement. 

"Why,  Lolly,  Lolly  dear,  you  must  see!  He's  so  fright- 
fully different — so 

"Perhaps  that's  why  I  love  him." 

"You  mean  you  .  .  .  Marry  him!"  Marjorie's  expression 
was  an  odd  blend  of  horror,  amazement,  and  admiration. 
"  Oh,  but,  Laura — marry  him ! " 

"  Yes,  if "  A  sudden  memory  of  her  parting  with  her 

lover,  of  her  own  misery — lost  in  the  sense  of  standing  by  him, 
standing  up  for  him  against  the  cruel  ridicule,  the  criticism  of 
the  others — swept  over  Laura  with  a  sense  of  utter  weariness 
and  discouragement.  "  If  he'll  have  me,"  she  added;  and 
turning  to  the  dressing-table,  sat  down  in  front  of  it  and  began 
taking  the  pins  out  of  her  hair,  staring  at  herself  with  blank, 
unseeing  eyes. 

"I  think  I'll  go  to  bed.    I'm  dead  tired." 

"I'll  get  your  dressing-gown  for  you;  I'll  brush  your 

hair.  Poor  old  Lolly "  Marjorie  was  beginning,  when 

there  was  an  uncertain  tap  upon  the  door,  and  Lady  Creichton 
entered,  closing  it  behind  her  with  the  air  of  a  conspirator. 

"Laura  darling,  your  father  wants  to  see  you;  but  if  I 
say  you're  too  tired — you're  undressed  .  .  ."  She  hesitated, 
as  she  realised  that  Laura  was  raising  her  thick  coil  of  hair, 
replacing  the  pins. 

"Laura,  you'd  better  not  go;  he's  very  upset.  .  .  .  Oh, 
Laura,  why  did  you,  my  dear?  So  unlike  you!  Of  course,  a 
joke's  a  joke — but  you!"  She  gave  a  bewildered  shake  of 
her  head,  made  a  cobwebby  motion  with  her  hands  as  though 
she  would  have  wrung  them  had  they  been  firm  enough — if 
anything,  anything  on  earth  could  be  firm  and  sure,  with 
Laura  like  this. 

"It  isn't  a  joke.  I'd  better  come."  Laura  rose  to  her 
feet,  her  knees  shaking  under  her;  for  she  had  always  been 
frightened  of  her  father,  not  at  all  like  Marjorie,  with  her 
alternate  cheeking  and  coaxing,  and  the  memory  of  Vor- 
tonitch's  repudiation  seemed  to  have  wiped  the  life  out  of  her. 
She  touched  her  mother's  arm  timidly,  the  old  Laura. 

"Do  forgive  me,  mother.  I  was  awfully  rude  to  you — I 
don't  know  what  happened  to  me;  but  they  all — they  would 
keep  on." 

Lady  Creichton  drew  her  arm  round  her  daughter,  the  tears 
running  down  her  own  face.  "Never  mind,  my  darling; 


158  LAURA  CREICHTON 

don't  worry.  I'll  tell  your  father  you  didn't  mean  it.  You 
were  excited  and  overwrought." 

"  No,  I  didn't  mean  it.    It  was " 

"Yes,  dear,  I  know,  I  know — do  you  think  your  mother 
doesn't  know?  And  if  I  tell  him  not  to  say  anything  more; 
that  there  was  nothing  in  it  ...  just  a  joke — a  sort  of  a 
joke  .  .  ." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Laura  drew  back,  her  shadowed 
eyes  intent  upon  her  mother;  suddenly  and  deeply  suspicious. 

"That  unfortunate  young  man.  So  ridiculous!  I  said, 
*  Just  as  if  Laura,  of  all  people ' ' 

"  I  think  you're  mistaken.  I'm  sorry  I  was  rude.  But  for 
the  rest  .  .  .  I'll  see  father  now." 

As  she  turned  to  the  door  her  mother  caught  at  her  arm. 

"Laura,  you  can't  be  in  earnest!  A  man  we  don't  know 
— none  of  us  know — not  even  a  gentleman!" 

"Mother,  don't!" 

"But,  Laura  darling  .  .  ."  Lady  Creichton  was  sobbing 
distractedly,  her  face  all  blurred  and  piteous  with  unaccus- 
tomed grief.  "You  can't  mean  that  you  really  care,  that  it 
means  anything?  Why,  you  can't  even  know  him — we  don't 
know  him."  She  reiterated  the  argument  which  to  her  own 
mind  seemed  so  altogether  sufficient.  "Laura,  it's  not 
possible  that  you  care!  You  think  you  do;  that's  all." 

"  I  know  I  care.  How "  Laura  broke  off,  hesitating. 

It  had  been  in  her  mind  to  say,  "  How  can  one  help 
caring,  or  not  caring?  You  cared  once;  you  ought  to 
know";  but  she  held  the  words  back,  with  an  oddly 
mature  conviction  that  they  would  all  be  of  no  use;  that 
people  forget  the  ways  of  love  as  they  forget  nothing  else  in 
life. 

"  I'd  better  go  and  get  it  over.    Don't  worry,  mother." 

"Of  course  it  mayn't — I  only  hope  it  mayn't — come  to 
anything." 

"No,  it  mayn't  come  to  anything."  Laura  laughed  a 
little  oddly,  almost  wildly — so  unlike  Laura — Laura  wild! — 
and  hesitated  a  moment,  looking  at  her  mother  in  an  odd, 
brooding  way,  almost  as  though  she  were  someone  else. 

"All  the  same "  she  added;  then,  breaking  off  again, 

moved  towards  the  door,  and  closed  it  gently  behind  her; 
leaving  the  other  two  staring  at  each  other  in  blank  silence, 
utterly  amazed,  as  amazed  as  Balaam  with  his  ass. 

Laura!     Laura,  of  all  people! 


CHAPTER  XVII 

"  THERE'S  nothing  to  be  got  out  of  her — nothing  to  be  done 
with  her."  That  was  the  surprising,  and  surprised,  verdict 
upon  Laura  and  Laura's  affair,  both  from  her  parents  and 
those  friends  whom  Lady  Creichton  importuned  for  assistance, 
with  a — "  Perhaps  if  you  spoke  to  Laura — she  was  always  so 
fond  of  you." 

They  were  willing  enough  to  intervene,  too — apart  from 
Stratton,  who  realised  the  hopelessness  of  words,  the  unfair- 
ness of  any  words  uttered  by  himself  in  such  a  context — the 
general  idea  being  that  as  Laura  was  always  so  sweet,  you 
must  be  very  stupid  if  you  failed  to  show  your  superiority  by 
influencing  her. 

Failing,  as  they  did,  in  the  face  of  this  strangely  cold  and 
detached  Laura,  they  found  a  grievance  in  the  fact  of  "never 
really  knowing  what  those  quiet  people  are  up  to." 

One  result,  however,  emerged  from  all  this  inability  to 
talk  the  thing  out,  even  to  talk  it  over,  in  the  sense  of  any 
interchange  of  ideas :  that  "  only  Laura "  business  was  over 
and  done  with,  once  and  for  all. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  there  was  nothing  deliberate  in  Laura's 
reserve.  If  she  had  been  happy  she  might  have  been  more 
sensitive  to  the  opinion  of  others,  more  easily  influenced  and 
hurt  by  any  estrangement.  But  the  poor  child  was  so  com- 
pletely miserable  that  nothing  seemed  to  matter;  was  indeed 
more  than  half  stunned  by  that  last  scene  with  Vortonitch; 
like  a  swimmer  overcome  by  the  waves;  dashed  up  onto  a 
rough,  pebbly  shore,  battered  and  beaten;  the  roar  of  water 
still  in  her  ears,  insensible  to  all  else,  incapable  of  effort. 
Even  later,  a  trifle  recovered,  she  was  too  weak,  or  too  strong 
— it  all  depends  upon  the  point  of  view  in  regard  to  love — to 
say:  "He's  behaved  abominably.  Why  should  I  bother  my 
head  about  him?"  too  loyal  to  hint  at  any  rift,  implying  a 
fault,  as  it  must  do;  and  too  honest  to  assume  an  air  of 
triumphant,  blatant  happiness. 

In  the  face  of  all  this  there  was  simply  nothing  for  her  to 
say;  and  as  the  others  were  powerless  to  affect  her,  she 

159 


160  LAURA  CREICHTON 

remained  silent.  It  seemed,  indeed,  throughout  those  sullen 
summer  days,  heavy  with  thunder,  as  though  she  were 
frozen;  her  hands  so  icily  cold  that  her  mother  was  alarmed 
when  she  touched  them;  while,  from  being  the  least  con- 
sidered member  of  the  family,  she  dominated  it,  by  the  fact 
that  they,  who  had  seemed  to  know  everything  there  was 
about  each  other,  discovered  that  here,  in  the  most  unexpected 
quarter,  they  knew  nothing  whatever. 

"Is  she  seeing  the  fellow?"  demanded  Sir  Harry;  and 
his  wife  replied,  despairingly,  "  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  I 
know  nothing;  she  tells  me  nothing." 

"  One  would  imagine  that  you'd  have  some  sort  of 
influence  over  your  own  daughter.  Haven't  you  forbidden  her 
to  see  him?  Why  don't  you  put  your  foot  down,  once  and 
for  all?  What,  in  the  name  of  all  that's  holy,  are  mothers 
for?" 

"  Not  for  forbidding,"  said  Lady  Creichton,  with  one  of 
her  odd  flashes  of  insight;  and  then,  as  though  this  had 
blazed  a  trail,  she  added,  "  Did  you  forbid  her  not  to  meet 
him,  write  to  him,  or  anything?" 

"  Of  course  I  did,"  he  snapped  back ;  then  flushed, 
realising  the  slip.  "And  more,  too;  made  it  plain  that  if 
she  persists  in  keeping  up  with  that  cad,  I'll  never  speak  to 
her,  never  see  her  again." 

"Oh  dear,  what's  the  use  of  that?"  enquired  his  wife, 
with  a  sort  of  weary  flatness. 

"How  do  you  mean? — 'What's  the  use  of  that?'  By 
George!  things  have  come  to  a  pretty  pass  if  one's  to  be 
beaten  by  a  girl  like  Laura.  If  it  were  Marjorie,  now !" 

"Oh — Marjorie!"  Lady  Creichton  gave  an  odd  little 
movement  of  her  shoulders,  discounting  the  much-admired 
younger  daughter,  in  whom  she  had  discovered  an  almost 
slavish  deference  to  public  opinion:  Marjorie  had  seemed  a 
rebel,  for  the  simple  reason  that  rebellion  among  daughters 
happened  to  be  "  the  thing " ;  but  this  was  pretty  well  as 
far  as  it  went:  for  though,  during  the  excitement  of  that  first 
disclosure  of  Laura's  she  had  sided  with  her,  she  was  now 
overcome  by  the  thought  of  the  effect  any  mesalliance  might 
have  upon  her  own  set,  making  her,  Marjorie,  "feel  like  a 
fool." 

"It's  no  good  threatening  Laura — it  won't  alter  her; 
she's  that  sort.  I  believe  you'll  have  to  give  in,  Harry." 

"Give  in!  What  the  deuce  do  you  mean?"  The  General 
stared  with  a  sideway  jerk  of  his  chin  over  the  top  of  his  stiff 


LAURA  CREICHTON  161 

collar:  during  the  war,  when  there  had  been  mules  by  the 
hundred  tethered  upon  Blackheath,  Lady  Creichton  had  seen 
them  jerk  at  their  halters,  with  the  lower  jaw  thrust  out  in 
just  this  fashion,  and  turned  away  her  head,  because  they 
hurt  her  sense  of  loyalty  by  reminding  her  of  her  husband. 

She  thought  of  them  now,  deliberately  and  with  a  sort  of 
relish;  put  it  into  words  in  her  own  mind:  "Like  an  old 
mule!"  then,  reverting  to  Laura,  was  seized  with  panic. 

"  You  mustn't  say  that  sort  of  thing  to  her,  try  to  force 
her  hand  like  that.  Don't  you  see?  .  .  .  Oh,  how  can  you 
be  so  stupid!"  she  cried,  with  a  sudden  passion.  "Don't 
you  realise  we'll  lose  her?  You'll  drive  her  away,  and  you've 
no  right  to  do  that.  She's  my  child  as  well  as  yours.  A 
great  deal  more  mine,  for  you've  got  Marjorie,"  she  added 
amazingly,  as  though  they  were  rival  factions  and  no  longer  a 
family.  "  I  can't  live  without  Laura ;  I  can't  and  I  won't — 
so  that's  plain,  Harry." 

"Edith!" 

"It's  no  good  saying  'Edith!'  to  me  like  that.  It's " 

She  had  been  knitting  fiercely,  and  Sir  Harry  Creichton,  with 
a  vague  memory  of  hearing  of  something  of  the  same  sort  in 
connection  with  the  women  of  the  French  Revolution,  was 
conscious  of  a  growing  fear  that  his  home  was  tumbling  about 
his  ears,  all  the  familiar  landmarks  of  the  ways  of  women  lost 
to  him,  when  she  relinquished  her  position  in  a  flood  of  tears; 
while  he  moved  over  to  the  mantelpiece  and,  turning  his  back 
to  her,  fiddled  with  the  little  Dresden  china  figures  which  stood 
there:  hating  to  see  a  woman  cry,  and  yet  with  a  distinct  sense 
of  relief  at  being  able  to  say : 

"You  women!  As  if  anything  was  ever  done  by  crying 
over  it!" 

After  a  moment  or  so  he  turned  again,  moved  towards  his 
wife  and  patted  her  on  the  shoulder,  as  though  she  were  a 
horse;  with  the  oddly  awkward  affection  of  a  certain  type  of 
Englishman. 

"After  all,  she's  only  a  child,  my  dear;  you  must  re- 
member that." 

"That's  what  I  thought,  Harry,  and  that's  where  I  was 
mistaken.  Why,  she  might  have  been  a  woman  for  years  and 
years  and  years,  by  the  way  she's  behaving.  When  do  they 
stop  being  children,  and  when  do  they  start  being  grown-up? 
That's  what  I  want  to  know!"  Her  voice  rose  in  a  gentle 
wail.  "  It's  no  good  saying  she's  not  even  out  yet — I  really 
believe  it  would  be  just  the  same  if  she  never  came  out.  And 


162  LAURA  CREICHTON 

perhaps,  now,  she  will  never  come  out — one  never  knows.  I 
had  thought  over  her  presentation  dress — with  skirts  growing 
wider,  and  all  that — and  then,  I  thought,  if  she  marries  .  .  . 
But  now  .  .  .  Oh  dear,  oh  dear!  it  all  seems  so  unlike  Laura. 
Really,  I'm  beginning  to  think  that  people  are  more  unlike 
themselves  than  they're  ever  unlike  anyone  else,  and  that's 
what  it  comes  to.  Oh  yes,  Parker  " — she  glanced  up,  realising 
the  parlourmaid  standing  just  inside  the  door — "  you  can 
bring  the  tea;  and  I'm  not  at  home,  if  anyone  calls.  Indian, 
please" — then  ran  on  with  desperate  emphasis,  as  the  door 
closed  behind  the  girl: 

"  I'd  rather  she  married  the  old  gentleman  himself,  than 
lose  her." 

A  few  minutes  later  Laura  herself  came  in  to  tea.  It  was 
impossible  that  she  should  live  without  eating;  and  yet  there 
seemed  something  strange  in  her  persistence  in  the  ordinary 
ways  of  life:  going  on  as  though  everything  were  the  same — 
a  little  more  silent,  that  was  all — when  everything  was,  in 
reality,  so  different;  even  to  this  having  Indian  instead  of 
China  tea  at  half -past  four  in  the  afternoon,  a  sort  of  stimu- 
lant, as  significant  in  its  own  way  as  a  whisky-and-soda. 

By  this  time  the  strange  suspense,  that  feeling  of  not 
knowing  what  to  expect,  had  hung  over  the  family  for  eight 
days.  Five  more  passed,  and  still  nothing  had  happened, 
when  General  Creichton,  coming  home  about  five  o'clock  one 
day,  found  the  house  apparently  emptied  of  his  family  and 
that  afternoon's  letters  lying  upon  the  hall-table. 

As  he  picked  them  up  and  glanced  over  them,  his  attention 
was  caught  by  a  finely-pointed,  foreign-looking  handwriting, 
and  thick  white  envelope:  a  letter  to  Laura — a  long  one,  too, 
judging  by  the  feel  of  it. 

Gathering  it  up  with  his  own,  he  went  to  his  smoking-room 
and,  sitting  down  by  the  writing-table,  took  out  a  cigar,  cut 
off  the  end  and  lit  it,  with  more  deliberation  than  usual;  then 
spread  out  the  letters  in  front  of  him,  and  picked  up  a  paper- 
knife. 

His  idea  was  that  he  would  begin  with  Laura's;  get  that 
over;  but  in  the  end  he  read  his  own  first,  very  slowly;  went 
back  to  one  or  two;  re-read  them;  folded  them  carefully  and 
put  them  back  in  the  envelopes;  then  sat  balancing  the 
paper-knife  between  his  fingers,  his  honest  wooden  face  set, 
his  lower  lip  protruding;  whilst  the  clock  ticked  on,  more 
slowly  than  usual,  it  seemed,  as  though  overweighted  by  the 
afternoon  heat. 


LAURA  CREICHTON  163 

At  last  he  roused  himself,  with  that  odd  jerk  of  the  head: 
"Hang  it  all!  it's  the  only  thing  to  do!" — ran  his  knife  along 
the  flap  of  the  envelope,  and,  taking  the  folded  edge  of  the 
letter  between  his  finger  and  thumb,  pulled  it  half  out;  then 
pushed  it  back  again;  opened  the  door  of  his  writing-table, 
put  it  in  there  and  turned  the  key  in  the  lock;  thinking  that 
he'd  wait  until  after  dinner,  until  he  had  more  time  to  read  it; 
or,  rather,  telling  himself  so,  knowing  in  his  own  mind  that 
the  thing  was  impossible,  tradition  altogether  too  strong  for 
him.  "  To  open  another  person's  letters  " — in  some  way,  his 
mother  had  impressed  this  upon  him,  in  company  with  a  lie, 
as  the  unforgivable  sin. 

It  was  no  earthly  use  his  telling  himself  that  it  was  his 
duty  to  protect  his  daughter  by  seeing  what  this  foreign 
bounder  had  to  say  for  himself,  he  simply  could  not  do  it; 
and  for  three  days  the  letter  remained  unread  in  his  drawer. 
Then,  latish  one  afternoon,  he  heard  Laura's  voice  in  the  hall, 
and  acting  upon  a  sudden  impulse,  called  to  her;  took  it  out 
and  gave  it  into  her  hand. 

"I  opened  it,  but  I  didn't  read  it." 

"Thank  you."  She  hesitated,  her  head  bent  over  her 
letter;  then,  raising  it,  gazed  at  him  for  a  moment,  with  some 
of  her  old  timidity  and  affection,  her  face  flushed,  her  eyes 
bright  with  tears;  repeated  "Thank  you,"  added  the  word 
"  Dad,"  almost  as  though  it  were  a  caress,  and  took  a  step 
forward  towards  him;  then,  turning,  left  the  room,  and 
closed  the  door  gently  behind  her. 

She  might  have  been  absent  for  ten  minutes,  not  more, 
while  General  Creichton  walked  up  and  down  the  room, 
straightening  a  book  here,  a  paper  there;  stooping  and 
adjusting  the  curled-up  corner  of  a  rug.  Something  like  tears 
had  smarted  in  his  own  eyes  at  Laura's  glance;  in  that 
moment  it  had  seemed  as  though  they  were  melting  towards 
each  other;  if  only  he  could  have  sat  down  and  taken  her 
upon  his  knee,  as  he  used  to  do,  everything  might  have 
come  all  right  between  them.  He  had  actually  seemed  to 
feel  the  pressure  of  her  head  upon  his  shoulder,  the  fine  silky 
hair  against  his  cheek,  and  was  touched  to  a  sort  of  senti- 
mentality. Poor  little  Lolly!  Why  the  devil  shouldn't  she 
have  any  young  man  she  liked  making  love  to  her?  Hang  it 
all!  he  had  made  love  in  his  time,  more  than  once — success- 
fully, too. 

He  caught  himself  up  in  a  chuckle  with  the  thought  that 
girls  were  altogether  different:  with  girls,  love,  any  sort  of  an 


164  LAURA  CREICHTON 

affair,  meant  marriage.  Imagine  that  fellow  in  the  black  coat 
as  a  son-in-law!  The  thing  was  impossible.  How  could 
Laura  .  .  .  What  business  .  .  .?  Hang  it  all!  she  had 
behaved  disgracefully.  How  the  deuce  had  she  met  the 
fellow?  got  to  know  him? — deceived  them  all.  If  she  could 
do  that,  there  was  no  knowing  what  she  might  do. 

A  large  bluebottle  fly  buzzing  against  the  window-pane 
irritated  him  almost  beyond  bearing.  He  caught  up  an 
antimacassar  and  tried  to  drive  it  out  of  the  open  half,  while 
it  blundered  and  whirred,  in  every  direction  but  the  right  one. 
By  the  time  he  got  it  into  a  corner,  picked  it  up  and  threw  it 
out,  with  an  exclamation  of  furious  digust,  he  was  dripping 
with  the  heat,  for  the  sun  was  full  upon  the  glass;  his  rage 
boiling  over  from  Laura,  concentrated  upon  the  insolent 
stupidity  of  the  insect. 

Then  his  wife's  fool  of  a  cat  came  in  by  the  open  window, 
demanding  to  be  let  out  of  the  door,  and  his  anger  swelled 
with  a  burning  sensation  up  the  back  of  his  neck,  a  feeling  as 
though  his  collar  were  too  tight  for  him.  He  put  his  forefinger 
over  the  top,  pulled  it  sideways,  jerking  his  head,  his  jaw  out, 
while  his  mind  reverted  to  Laura.  To  take  the  letter  like 
that! — confounded  cheek!  From  one's  own  child!  Not 
one  word  of  apology,  explanation.  "Thank  you";  just 
"  Thank  you  " !  What  were  young  people  coming  to !  What 
the  devil  were  they  coming  to!  The  memory  of  that  glance, 
the  intonation  of  that  single  word,  "  Dad,"  was  lost  to  him. 

He  moved  towards  the  bell;  he  would  ring  it,  peal  it, 
summon  Parker,  dispatch  her  in  search  of  Laura;  court- 
martial  her. 

Where  were  the  others?  What  were  they  doing  now? 
Something  they  oughtn't  to  be  doing,  without  doubt,  making  a 
fool  of  him. 

He  thought  of  his  position  at  the  Arsenal:  men  saluting, 
drawing  up  to  attention:  he  was  somebody  there.  That 
was  the  result  of  discipline;  that  was  what  was  wrong  with 
women — no  discipline.  That  was  what  was  wrong  with  his 
wife;  that  was  the  reason  why  she  couldn't  manage  her  own 
children.  He'd  been  a  fool  to  allow  Charles  to  go  to  Oxford 
instead  of  putting  him  straight  into  the  Army;  there  was  no 
discipline  at  the  universities;  Socialism  and  all  that  sort  of 
tommy-rot;  men  holding  themselves  all  anyhow — slouch- 
ing! Where  the  devil  was  Parker?  Where  the  devil  was 
everyone?  Wasn't  he  going  to  be  allowed  any  tea,  in  his  own 
house? 


LAURA  CREICHTON  165 

Oh,  well!  he'd  better  have  it  out  with  Laura  first;  no 
sitting  down  to  tea  with  Laura  as  though  nothing  had  hap- 
pened. He'd  given  her  time  to  come  round,  pull  herself 
together,  and  now  he  was  going  to  put  his  foot  down. 

That  damned  cat  had  returned  through  the  open  door,  and 
was  miaowing  to  be  let  out  of  the  long  French  window  with 
the  closed  outside  shutter.  And  two  other  windows  wide 
open!  Just  like  a  cat! 

No,  he  wouldn't  have  tea;  he'd  have  an  iced  whisky-and- 
soda;  he  was  tired — nobody  ever  seemed  to  think  of  him 
being  tired,  and  yet  he  was  the  only  one  of  the  family  who 
did  anything.  But  first  of  all  he  would  have  it  out  with  Laura. 

His  hand  was  at  the  bell  when  Laura  walked  into 
the  room.  She  held  herself  stiffly  erect,  as  erect  as  he  himself 
might  have  done;  there  was  an  odd,  stiffened  look  in  her  face, 
too;  something  blank  and  withdrawn  in  her  eyes.  Years  ago, 
when  he  was  a  subaltern,  he  had  seen  a  young  fellow  led  out 
to  be  shot,  with  just  that  look.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  that 
his  daughter  would,  indeed,  rather  have  been  shot  than  face 
the  prospect  of  a  scene  with  him;  assert  herself. 

She  held  no  letter  in  her  hand,  as  she  ought  to  have  done, 
undoubtedly  showing,  or  at  least  expounding  it. 

General  Sir  Harry  Creichton  sat  down  in  the  armchair  at 
his  writing-table;  one  leg  stuck  out  stiffly  to  the  side  of  him, 
one  elbow  crooked;  and  picking  up  a  pen,  tapped  gently 
upon  the  table  with  it;  his  light-grey  eyes,  with  contracted 
pupils,  steady  upon  Laura. 

That  pressure  up  the  back  of  his  neck  had  settled  into  a 
general  sensation  of  dulness;  he  felt  exactly  as  though  he  were 
indeed  conducting  a  court-martial;  he  was  in  his  court-martial 
attitude,  and  that  helped  him  to  a  sort  of  cold  impartiality. 

"Well?" 

"  I've  had  a  letter  from  Mr.  Vortonitch." 

"And  who  might  Mr.  Vortonitch  be?" 

Of  course  she  would  say,  "The  man  who  came  here,"  or, 
"  The  man  we  spoke  of,"  he  thought,  counting  upon  this 
opening  for  some  sally  of  ridicule  or  satire. 

But  she  did  nothing  of  the  kind.  With  a  bluntness  which 
staggered  him,  using  a  word  of  the  possible  significance  of 
which  she  could  have  had  no  conception,  she  answered: 

"  My  lover." 

Like  that.  "My  lover."  To  say  that  Sir  Harry  was 
amazed  would  be  an  absurd  under-statement;  but  with  this 
amazement  was  mingled  a  strange  bewilderment,  a  feeling  as 


166  LAURA  CREICHTON 

though  he  scarcely  knew  which  was  Laura  and  which  was 
himself;  a  sense  of  her  as  nearer  to  him  than  she  had  ever 
been  before,  in  her  docile  days;  and  with  this,  something  else 
which  almost  amounted  to  a  confusion  as  to  which  was  the 
culprit  and  which  the  judge. 

He  rose  to  his  feet  and  moved  a  step  towards  her;  he  was 
not  a  tall  man,  and  their  eyes  were  almost  level. 

"You  dare  to  say  that  to  me!  'My  lover'! — a  scoundrel 
like  that!  A  man  you  know  nothing  of!" 

"  I  do  know." 

"What  do  you  know?  What  can  you  know?  Who  are 
you,  to  judge  a  man  of  that  sort?  Your  'lover'!  Do  you 
know  what  you  mean  by  that? — what  people  would  take  you 
to  mean?  That  .  .  ."  He  broke  off.  Here  was  a  girl  who 
knew  nothing;  before  whom  nothing  of  the  facts  of  life  had 
ever  been  put  into  words. 

Laura  flushed,  for  the  way  in  which  he  spoke  roused  in  her 
some  instinct  as  to  the  significance  of  his  words,  her  own. 

"I  mean  that  I  love  him,  that  he  loves  me;  that  we  are 
going  to  be  married." 

She  held  her  head  high,  for  the  letter  had  made  her  divinely 
certain  of  this. 

"Never!    Never,  with  my  consent." 

"  He  has  been  ill ;  he  wants  me  to  go  and  see  him." 

"Oh,  he  does,  does  he!" 

"I'm  going  now — this  afternoon.  Dad,  I  must  see  him." 
Her  voice  broke  on  a  note  of  pleading.  Now  that  all  was  right 
again  between  Vortonitch  and  herself,  she  could  afford  to 
speak  of  what  was  past.  "Everything  went  wrong  last 
time;  it's  been  awful!  I  didn't  know  .  .  .  But  I  must  see 
him  again  now." 

"Now?     You  mean  to-day?" 

"Yes;  to-day." 

"Where?" 

Sir  Harry's  tone  was  ominously  quiet:  his  men  knew  and 
feared  this  quietness,  the  way  in  which  it  broke. 

"  In  London.  There's  a  train  in  half  an  hour.  I  won't  be 
long,  I  promise  you;  I'll  be  back  soon,  not  very  late." 

"  Where?  I  said."  He  heard  his  own  voice  rise  suddenly, 
shouting  through  the  still  room,  the  silent  house,  bellowing. 
— "Where?  Come  now,  answer  me,  can't  you!" 

"I  suppose — at  his  rooms;  he  won't  know — he  can't 
meet  me.  The  letter  was  written  four  days  ago."  She  spoke 
confusedly,  doubtfully,  because  she  was  worried,  realising 


LAURA  CREICHTON  167 

afresh  the  long  delay;  but  her  words  might  have  been  one  of 
Vortonitch's  own  bombs,  laid  beneath  her  father's  feet. 

"  You  —  mean — to — tell  —  me — that — you — contemplate — 
going — to — this — fellow's  rooms?"  he  asked,  still  shouting, 
every  word  widely  separated,  as  though  she  were  deaf. 

"Yes." 

"Then  I  forbid  it.     That's  flat.     I  absolutely  forbid  it." 

"  I  must  go." 

"You  will  not  go.  Good  God!  do  you  realize  what  you're 
talking  of?" 

"I  must  go.  I'm  sorry,  but "  Her  joy  at  the  love, 

her  tender  sorrow  and  joy  at  the  self-abasement  and  regret, 
the  desperate  longing  for  her  presence,  which  she  had  found  in 
Vortonitch's  letter  upheld  her;  but  for  all  that,  hot  as  the  day 
was,  she  shivered :  "  He  wants  me.  I  must  go." 

"  If  you  do,  you'll  never  come  back  here.  Do  you  realise 
that?  By  going  to  a  man's  room  like  that;  by  persisting  in 
keeping  up  with  a  person  we've  all  warned  you  against;  by 
deliberately  disobeying  me,  you  cut  yourself  off  from  us  all, 
and  for  ever — for  ever,  mind  that.  I'm  not  the  sort  of  man 
to  go  back  on  my  word:  I'll  never  speak  to  you  again,  and 
your  mother  and  sister  shall  never  speak  to  you  again,  if  you 
choose  to  disgrace  yourself  like  this.  Understand  that. 
Now!" 

The  tears  came  into  Laura's  eyes  and  ran  down  her  white 
face.  It  seemed  as  though  she  bent  a  little,  drawn  together, 
inexpressibly  childish  and  slender;  but  she  said  nothing. 

"Come  now,  my  dear;  be  sensible,  and  we'll  say  no  more 
about  it."  She  was  so  young,  it  was  impossible  that  he 
should  be  beaten  by  her,  he  thought. 

"  I  can't  give  him  up." 

"  If  you  don't " 

"  I  can't." 

She  hesitated,  looking  at  him  piteously;  for  one 
moment  their  gaze  hung  upon  each  other  with  an  amazing 
sense  of  relationship,  stronger  than  antagonism,  and  then, 
without  another  word,  she  turned  and  left  the  room. 

Five  minutes  later,  General  Creichton  heard  her — with  ears 
preternaturally  sharpened — cross  the  hall  and  go  out  of  the 
door  leading  to  the  garden;  then,  glancing  up,  saw  her  drop 
below  the  level  of  the  terrace,  reappear  at  the  edge  of  the 
orchard  and  cross  it,  making  for  the  gate  which  gave  onto  the 
short  cut  to  the  station. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  day  had  been  extraordinarily  airless,  even  for  London 
in  mid-August.  The  sun,  shining  through  a  haze,  seemed 
hotter  than  any  clear  blaze  could  possibly  have  been:  such  air 
as  there  was — heavy  with  hot  grit  and  foul  dust  from  the  wood 
pavement — lay  close-pressed  as  a  blanket  against  the  face, 
smarted  upon  the  parched  lips,  strained  eyelids.  The  grass 
in  the  park  showed  drab  and  withered,  shining  like  the  seams 
of  an  old  coat;  the  blackened  leaves  curled  upon  the  trees, 
all  sap  parched  out  of  them.  The  paving-stones  burnt 
against  the  pedestrians'  feet,  so  that  men  in  the  street  walked 
as  Shadrach,  Meshach  and  Abednego,  marvelling  that  they 
were  not  destroyed;  while  sweat  ran  down  the  sides  and 
bellies  of  the  horses,  dripping  upon  the  ground. 

It  seemed  well-nigh  impossible  to  breathe,  heart  and  brain 
both  alike  labouring  like  a  derelict  engine.  The  staleness  of 
everything  was  beyond  words.  The  water  in  the  basins  in 
Trafalgar  Square,  the  flowers  in  the  flower-sellers'  baskets,  the 
perfumes,  the  tobacco-smoke;  the  clothes,  the  movements, 
the  expressions  and  attitudes  of  the  people — everything, 
everything  alike  was  nauseatingly  stale;  their  virtues,  their 
vices,  loves,  hates,  all  they  thought  and  did  and  felt — stale! 
The  odour  which  came  through  the  restaurant  doors,  floating 
up  Old  Compton  Street  and  Little  Compton  Street,  and  Greek 
Street  and  Frith  Street,  sickened  in  the  place  of  tempting: 
even  the  children  were  quiet,  drooping  listlessly  upon  the  kerb. 
To  Vortonitch,  sitting  alone  in  his  room,  London  seemed  like 
a  corpse  over-long  dead,  horribly  corrupt.  All  day  he  had 
been  feeling  ill;  the  noise,  the  smells  were  almost  more  than 
he  could  bear,  for  he  had  starved  so  often  and  for  so  long 
together  that  it  took  little  to  set  him  retching,  with  a  swim- 
ming head.  He  thought  of  going  to  Hampstead  Heath,  but 
only  the  day  before  the  heat  had  been  greater  there  than 
anywhere  else;  Kew,  Richmond — his  soul  fainted  within  him 
at  the  very  idea  of  the  exertion  implied  in  getting  there — 
getting  anywhere.  He  was,  indeed,  sunk  in  one  of  his  moods 
of  blackest  depression ;  body  and  mind,  he  was  ill — ill — he  told 

168 


LAURA  CREICHTON  169 

himself,  dying  of  the  sickness,  the  nausea  of  life;  if  release 
did  not  come  soon  he  would  be  dead. 

He  could  not  move;  he  would  stay  there  and  soak  in 
his  remembered  miseries:  the  immense  tragedy  of  his 
unloved  childhood;  the  cruelty  of  indifferent  strangers;  the 
periods  of  cold,  hunger,  utter  fatigue;  the  persecution,  the 
filthy  prisons;  the  greedy,  inconstant  women,  the  faithless 
men. 

He  bathed  himself  in  such  memories  as  in  a  dark  pool, 
feeling  the  tainted  waters  rising  around  him;  the  cold  at  his 
heart,  though  the  sweat  still  ran  down  his  forehead. 

He  had  closed  his  window  when  the  noise  and  smell  of  the 
street  had  become  unendurable;  then  opened  it  again  on 
account  of  the  deadly  faintness  which  overcame  him,  shut 
away  from  all  air.  He  sat  by  it  now,  bent  forward  in  a  low 
chair,  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  his  hands  hanging  loosely 
between  them,  while  he  allowed  himself  to  sink  deeper,  deeper 
and  deeper;  drowning,  slimed  over,  by  all  the  dreadful 
things  which  he  had  known. 

That  friend  of  his  who  had  tried  to  rob  him,  found  him- 
self observed,  and,  drawing  a  revolver,  shot  wildly,  catching 
him  in  the  leg ;  he,  himself,  dropping,  falling  all  sideways,  and 
yet  returning  the  shot  with  effect. 

The  whole  thing  was  with  him  now  in  his  room  in  Soho: 
deliberately  he  picked  it  out  of  the  past,  dragged  it  forward, 
re-lived  it:  terrible  in  all  ways,  most  terrible  because  this 
was  the  one  man  whom  he  had  ever  quite  trusted.  There  had 
seemed  no  end  to  the  shooting;  it  went  on  and  on,  both  men 
fallen,  unable  to  move  away  or  nearer  to  each  other. 

The  walls  of  the  little  whitewashed  room,  high  in  what  had 
been  a  palace  when  Moscow  boasted  of  such  things — a  ser- 
vant's room — were  bespattered  with  bullets;  but  the  light 
was  bad,  the  place  crowded  with  furniture  from  which  the 
shots  ricocheted  aside.  It  seemed  as  though,  long  before  the 
end,  long,  long  after  they  had  fallen,  they  must  have  flicked 
scraps  of  flesh  from  each  other,  for  there  were  red-brown  flecks 
ameng  the  bullet-marks.  Then  Vortonitch  was  caught  in  the 
shoulder,  and  there  was  blood  in  his  mouth;  he  coughed  up 
more  blood,  feeling  certain  that  this  was  the  end.  So  it  was, 
but  of  the  other  man,  not  of  him:  it  seemed  as  though  the  two 
shots  must  have  literally  crossed. 

There  in  Soho  he  agonised  afresh  through  the  weeks  that 
followed;  the  horrors  of  the  prison  hospital,  so-called — the 
vermin,  the  frightful  cold,  the  garbage  in  place  of  food,  the 


170  LAURA  CREICHTON 

complete  callousness  of  those  responsible  for  the  sick  and 
wounded. 

There  was  an  English  police-cell  too,  unspeakably  filthy, 
and  a  stout  English  country  gentleman  who  had  condemned 
him  to  it  on  the  suspicion  of  poaching.  He  had  worn  a  tan- 
coloured  buckskin  waistcoat;  his  breath  smelt  of  port  wine, 
and  he  had  talked  of  the  laws  of  God — he  and  his  salmon! 
God  and  I — our  salmon!  Then  there  was  that  hillside  in 
Galicia;  another  prison  in  Mexico,  and  yet  another  in  Lisbon. 

There  were  other  things,  too.  That  girl,  the  mistress  he 
had  quarrelled  with,  who  got  out  of  bed,  left  him  and  drowned 
herself  in  the  bath;  she  was  before  him  now;  he  looked  down 
at  her — long  red  hair,  like  seaweed,  floating  on  the  top  of  the 
water;  straight,  greenish- white  limbs. 

Then  again  there  was  that  face  of  awful  astonishment,  the 
amazed  grin  frozen  upon  a  head  already  separated  from  the 
body,  which  he  had  seen  the  day  his  father  met  with  his  death. 

He  had  taken  his  young  son  with  him  to  witness  his  tour 
de  force,  for  he  was  vain  and  theatrical,  as  are  all  such  men. 
They  had  been  separated  from  each  other  by  the  crowd  which 
had  gathered  to  cheer  a  Grand  Duke,  whom  all  alike  hated, 
and  which,  pressing  upon  the  elder  man,  too  small  and  frail 
for  resistance,  pressing  and  pushing — a  solid  block  of  human- 
ity— almost  impaling  him  upon  the  wire  railings  surrounding 
the  parade-ground,  had  forced  him  against  them,  so  that  the 
bomb  which  he  carried  folded  in  his  own  coat,  close  against  his 
own  heart,  had  exploded,  blown  him  to  fragments;  killed  and 
injured  innumerable  innocents,  while  the  Grand  Duke  went 
on  his  way  to  his  banqueting,  speech-making,  wine,  cigars, 
women,  swelling  with  a  sense  of  the  good  taste,  the  benignity 
of  a  God  Who  would  not  allow  His  Grand  Dukes  to  be  so 
easily  disposed  of. 

Memories,  memories!  They  swept  round  him  and  over 
him:  humanity,  nature;  pitiless  days,  cruel  as  humanity; 
the  impotence  of  rage,  the  dragging  chain  of  poverty. 

And  yet  some  bright  days,  light,  laughter,  love.  Yes,  yes. 
But  all  to  be  paid  for,  one  way  or  another,  nothing  to  hold 
to,  nothing  to  rest  in — sounding  cymbal  and  tinkling  brass. 

You  loved  a  man  or  woman,  and  they  betrayed  you;  hurt 
you  in  a  thousand  ways;  if  it  was  only  by  boring  you,  they 
hurt  you;  it  even  hurt  to  cease  to  love  them — jagged  sores, 
these. 

There  was  only  one  clear-cut  way  of  doing  anything  in  life, 
and  that  was  by  death.  Talk,  talk,  talk!  How  people 


LAURA  CREICHTON  171 

talked!  What  a  fuss  they  made  over  their  grievances,  op- 
pressions, when  the  remedy  was  so  easy,  so  cheap;  to  cut 
away  all  oppressors,  root  and  branch;  so  easy — safe,  too,  with 
the  exercise  of  just  a  little  care,  common-sense. 

Yes,  that  was  the  way  to  disentangle  oneself  and  one's 
fellows — those  fellows  for  whom  it  was  impossible  to  feel  any 
real  affection,  because  they  were  dirty,  mean,  stupid,  ignorant, 
slavish:  those  fellows  made  to  be  used  in  the  way  some 
beggars  use  their  own  sores — a  source  of  pity,  indignation. 

Oh  yes — all  very  well,  all  very  well;  but,  after  all,  there 
were  other  things  in  life:  beauty,  love — another  sort  of  love, 
if  one  could  once  be  sure  of  it. 

Well,  he  had  had  it;  been  sure  of  it:  so  sure  that  he  had 
felt  a  sort  of  contempt  for  it,  in  itself — so  simple,  so  trusting 
and  childlike — thought  to  put  it  to  other  uses,  and  lost  ft,  lost 
it!  She,  Laura,  knew  nothing  of  this  but  he  knew.  If  he  had 
been  content  to  allow  himself  to  love,  to  have  kept  this  one 
thing  apart  from  all  that  other  business,  from  everything  else, 
there  was  nothing  which  he  might  not  have  overcome. 

The  stinking,  bitter  waters  had  almost  overcome  him;  but 
it  was  the  icy  purity  of  the  crest  of  the  wave  which  threatened 
to  prove  itself  more  than  he  could  bear. 

Supposing  there  were  to  be  no  upward  swing  of  the 
pendulum.  It  had  always  come  before,  a  mere  matter  of 
waiting,  holding  on,  somehow  or  other;  but  then,  he  had 
never  aimed  so  high. 

The  lamps  were  lighted  in  the  street  beneath  him;  the 
sounds  of  the  day  had  imperceptibly — yet  not  quite  im- 
perceptibly, for  the  two  were  divided  by  some  sort  of  a  hush — 
changed  to  those  of  the  night;  the  people,  the  voices,  were 
different,  the  pace  different,  the  roadway  empty  of  traffic, 
trailed  over  by  pedestrians,  the  French,  the  Italian,  the 
drawling  Cockney,  was  pierced  through  by  the  shriller  tones 
of  the  West-Enders,  that  high,  excited  laugh  which  points  to 
some  idea  of  adventuring.  People  who  did  not  live  in  Soho 
came  there  to  "see  life"!  Fools,  fools!  As  if  one  could  ever 
really  see  life  of  any  sort  without  living  it,  laving  oneself  with 
it;  a  hundred  pangs  for  every  thrill. 

Laura  was  not  like  this;  Laura  lived  her  own  life:  it  was 
because  she  was  so  entirely  herself  that  she  had  rested  him, 
satisfied  him,  as  she  had  done. 

Laura,  Laura,  Laura!  His  whole  being  was  torn  with 
longing  for  her;  he  was  like  that  child  "crying  in  the  night — 
and  with  no  language  but  a  cry." 


172  LAURA  CREICHTON 

His  heart  ached  with  the  day-long  struggle  for  air;  his 
limbs  hung  upon  him  with  an  intolerable  weight;  a  parched 
mouth  and  empty  head,  a  labouring,  exhausted  heart;  there 
was  nothing  more  to  him,  never  would  be,  never  could  be, 
unless  .  .  .  unless  ...  At  other  times  there  had  been  many 
chances  of  salvation,  however  faint,  now  there  was  but 
one. 

Sinking,  sinking,  it  seemed  as  though  he  must  have 
touched  bottom,  when  there  was  the  sound  of  a  knock  upon 
the  door.  He  did  not  answer  "  Come  in,"  or  "  Go  away." 
What  did  it  matter  what  he  said?  Nothing  mattered.  He 
was  facing  the  door,  his  head  was  sunk  upon  his  chest;  he  did 
not  even  look  up  when  it  was  opened.  And  yet,  far,  far 
away,  almost  buried  at  the  back  of  his  mind,  was  the  cer- 
tainty that  when  he  had  reached  such  depths  the  upward 
swing  must  still  come  to  him. 

"Paul!"  It  was  Laura.  He  did  not  know  why,  but  he 
was  suddenly  reminded  of  a  single  blade  of  green  pushed  up 
through  some  intolerably  dreary  and  frost-bitten  waste  of 
mud. 

The  dark  room,  the  narrow  doorway  showed  nothing 
more  than  an  oblong  of  pale  light,  her  tall  figure — for  she 
seemed  to  have  grown  even  in  the  last  couple  of  months,  the 
child! — silhouetted  out  against  it. 

"Paul,  is  it ?"  The  tone  was  tentative:  she  saw 

something,  but  she  was  not  certain.  Then,  as  her  eyes 
became  more  accustomed  to  the  dimness,  she  repeated  his 
name — "  Oh,  Paul ! "  and  moved  towards  him. 

"What  is  the  matter?     What  is  it?     Are  you  still  ill?" 

He  rose  at  that,  took  one  step  towards  her,  put  out  both 
hands. 

"  Laura — Laura ! " 

His  touch  was  burning  hot  to  her  hands,  cool  as  grass.  He 
clung  to  her,  and  she  put  her  strong  young  arms  round  him;  the 
one  person  who  had  ever  needed  her,  clung  to  her.  She  sat 
down  in  the  chair  by  the  window  and  he  knelt  at  her  side,  her 
arms  about  his  shoulders,  his  head  against  her  breast,  her  face 
bent  to  his,  cheek  to  cheek,  with  little  moans  and  murmurs  of 
love,  like  a  mother  with  her  child. 

Their  tears  mingled.  To  Laura  Creichton,  who  had  never 
though  of  it  as  possible  for  a  man  to  weep,  life  seemed  to  have 
suddenly  grown  astonishing,  fearful  from  its  very  strangeness; 
love  also,  that  was  strange,  painful,  pitiful:  it  seemed  as 
though  her  very  soul  were  being  drawn  out  of  her  body,  flowing 


LAURA  CREICHTON  173 

into  that  of  her  lover,  leaving  her  weak  and  bereft,  yet  almost 
terribly  happy. 

As  to  Vortonitch,  he  was  at  peace;  at  last  he  was  at  peace. 
Here  was  something  which  he  had  been  searching  for,  longing 
for,  throughout  his  entire  life,  or  so  it  seemed.  He  was  like  a 
spent  swimmer:  the  shore,  the  shore — that  was  all  he  had 
needed;  to  lie  out  beneath  the  trees,  rooted  in  the  sure  earth, 
the  calm,  still  earth;  never,  never  to  wander  more. 

All  wanderers  have  felt  like  that  at  times,  for  short  spaces; 
for  the  true  wanderer,  whether  of  the  feet,  the  heart,  or  the 
soul,  can  never  truly  remain  at  rest. 

For  a  long  while  they  stayed  thus,  clinging  together, 
almost  without  a  word;  then,  very  haltingly,  for  it  was  diffi- 
cult to  speak  of  her  own  people  in  any  sort  of  way  which 
might  seem  like  speaking  against  them,  Laura  told  him  of 
what  had  happened,  how  she  came  to  be  there. 

"I  had  to  choose  between  you:  what  else  was  I  to  do?" 
she  said,  very  simply,  not  asking  a  question,  though  the  words 
were  cast  in  that  form. 

"But  some  day  they  will  forgive  you — surely,  some 
day?"  answered  Vortonitch  uneasily.  At  that  moment 
something  seemed  to  leap  from  the  very  depths  of  himself — 
something  which  he  had  thought  of  as  buried,  done  with,  and 
ask: 

"What  good  are  you  to  me  without  your  people?" 

"  I  daren't  think  of  that,  count  upon  it.  Anyhow,  we  are 
together." 

She  had  thrown  off  her  hat  and  raised  him  a  little;  he 
pressed  his  lips  against  her  hair,  so  fresh  and  unscented. 

"  Yes,  yes — that  is  enough,  dear  one,  beloved,  heart  of 
my  life!  We  are  together."  Once  more  that  seemed  really 
enough,  almost  more  than  enough,  and  he  was  content  to  cling 
to  her. 

"You  were  sitting  here — all  alone  in  the  dark,"  said 
Laura.  "You  are  trembling,  my  dear;  you  are  trembling. 
Your  hands  were  burning  hot,  now  they  are  like  ice.  It  was 
nearly  nine  when  I  came  in — did  you  have  any  dinner? 
Paul,  now  tell  me.  Oh,  but  you're  hopeless — no  more  able  to 
look  after  yourself !" 

She  disengaged  herself  forcibly  and  rose  to  her  feet. 
"  Where  are  the  matches?  I  must  have  a  light." 

He  handed  her  matches  from  his  pocket,  and  she  lit  the 
gas,  regulating  it  carefully;  then  looked  round  the  room. 

She  had  been  there  before,  on  that  one  stolen  afternoon, 


174  LAURA  CREICHTON 

but  she  could  not  bear  to  look  about  her  then;  she  was  shy — 
besides,  it  hurt  her  to  see  him  in  such  a  place.  Now,  however, 
she  gazed  around  her  steadily,  with  a  definite  aim.  This 
place  was  to  be  her  home — this!  They  would  have  finished 
dinner  at  "The  House"  by  now;  Parker  would  be  serving  coffee 
in  the  little  loggia  at  the  top  of  the  steps  leading  into  the 
garden.  Gerald  Stratton  was  dining  there,  Mary  Henderson — 
Laura's  mind  ran  backwards  like  a  mouse  out  of  its  hole,  then 
returned.  The  wallpaper  hung  loose  in  places.  The  stuffing 
of  the  narrow  sofa  had  dropped  away  from  the  springs,  the 
lace  curtains  were  pulled  awry,  one-half  off  its  rings;  on  a 
narrow  sideboard,  amid  a  pile  of  books  and  papers,  was  a 
coffee-pot,  cup  and  saucer,  and  plate  with  half-melted  butter, 
fragments  of  bread,  cigarette-ashes. 

There  was  a  gas-ring  though;  a  kettle  and  frying-pan.  Of 
a  sudden,  she  was  intensely  practical;  she  picked  up  her  hat, 
a  round  mushroom  straw  wreathed  with  small  field-flowers, 
and  put  it  on  her  head.  "  I  am  going  out  to  buy  some  food 
and  things." 

Vortonitch,  leaning  against  the  mantelshelf,  leaning 
because  he  was  too  faint  and  weak  to  stand  alone,  remon- 
strated. "Child,  you  can't.  You  .  .  .  We  must  talk  over 
things;  we  must  settle  .  .  ."  His  mind  was  in  a  state  of 
confusion.  She  could  not  stay  here:  this  was  certain;  she 
was  not  "  that  sort."  And  yet,  if  he  once  sent  her  away  from 
him,  let  her  out  of  his  sight!  .  .  .  Oh,  he  couldn't  live  without 
her — couldn't,  couldn't;  and,  what  was  more,  wouldn't. 

And  yet,  to  spoil  her,  the  one  perfect  thing:  to  let  her  stay 
in  this  pestilential  place  alone  with  him!  He  put  his  hand  to 
his  head.  What  was  best?  What  was — for  the  first  time 
in  his  life  the  thought  came  to  him — "the  proper  thing  to 
do"?  He  was  utterly  puzzled. 

But  he  had  no  need  to  be,  for  Laura,  the  timid,  the  tenta- 
tive young  girl,  was  perfectly  sure  and  decided;  had  her  im- 
mediate plans  all  ready. 

"  It's  no  good  trying  to  settle  anything,  talk  over  any- 
thing, until  you've  had  some  food.  That's  one  thing  certain." 

'  But  you  can't  go  like  that!"  She  was  wearing  a  short- 
sleeved  white  muslin  dress  in  which  she  might  have  just  come 
from  a  garden-party. 

"Why  not?  I  came  like  this.  ...  Oh  well,  if  you 
like."  She  took  his  mackintosh  from  behind  the  door  and 
slipped  into  it.  "I  wish  I  had  a  basket;  but  there  are 
pockets." 


LAURA  CREICHTON  175 

She  hesitated  with  her  purse  in  her  hand,  gazing  round  the 
room;  her  fine  black  brows  drawn  together,  her  lips  moving. 

"Bread,  milk,  tea,  eggs,  bacon  .  .  .  Oh,  and  wine — 
you're  used  to  wine;  some  cold  meat  .  .  ." 

She  ran  over  the  list  which  she  had  drawn  up  in  her  mind, 
gave  him  a  smiling,  absent-minded  nod,  and  slipped  from  the 
room. 

She  was  a  long  time  gone:  an  eternity,  or  so  it  seemed  to 
Vortonitch.  He  had  not  thought  of  offering  to  go  in  her 
place,  of  suggesting  that  they  should  both  go  out  and  dine 
together.  He  was  so  weak  that  his  brain,  usually  so  alert, 
worked  slowly. 

He  pulled  a  chair  close  up  to  the  window  and  leant  over 
the  sill,  gazing  down  at  the  people,  watching  for  her  to  come 
back:  the  first  sight  of  the  beflowered  hat,  the  mackintosh. 
He  did  not  dare  go  out  to  meet  her,  for  he  did  not  know  in 
which  direction  she  had  gone. 

Men  with  barrows,  moving  slowly  down  the  roadway,  on 
their  way  home  from  a  wider  market,  anxious  to  dispose  of 
the  last  of  their  wares,  were  bawling  them  loudly ;  there  was  a 
continual  chattering,  shouting;  as  always  in  Soho,  people 
with  their  heads  out  of  the  window,  arms  folded  upon  the  sills, 
were  talking  to  friends  on  the  pavement  beneath  them. 

A  sudden  memory  of  that  dark  cedar,  the  smooth- 
shaven  green  lawn  at  "  The  House  " — as  he  had  seen  it  on  that 
one  day — swept  over  Paul  Vortonitch.  It  was  for  this  that  she 
was  leaving  such  a  home — for  this  and  for  him.  He  would 
kneel  at  her  feet  and  kiss  the  hem  of  her  white  dress  when  she 
came  back  again.  Laura — odd  how  the  name  had  fallen  into 
dieuse  of  late  years :  the  name  that  Petrarch  had  loved. 

A  woman's  shriek  rang  out  above  the  blurred  clamour  of 
mean-street  noises;  a  common  enough  sound,  and  yet,  of  a 
sudden,  he  was  frightened.  Supposing  she  did  not  come 
back!  Anything  might  happen  —  anything.  There  was 
scarcely  a  day  or  night  during  which  some  woman  did  not 
disappear  in  London,  drop  out  of  sight.  Only  a  short  while 
back  there  had  been  letters  in  the  papers  calling  attention  to 
it,  comparing  the  statistics  of  such  losses  with  those  of  other 
great  cities. 

Even  if  nothing  had  happened,  she  might  have  met  some 
of  her  own  people,  been  forced  or  persuaded  into  going  home 
with  them. 

He  could  bear  the  inactivity,  the  close  confines  of  the  room, 
no  longer — it  was  as  bad  as  any  prison — and  going  down  to 


176  LAURA  CREICHTON 

the  front  door,  he  stood  there.  She  would  not  come — she 
would  not  come;  he  had  lost  her. 

He  was  really  afraid,  and  yet  there  was  a  sort  of  luxury 
in  reflecting  over  a  thing  which  could  not  possibly  be  true. 
Could  not?  Why,  before  he  had  been  at  the  door  five 
minutes,  she  was  there,  her  arms  full  of  parcels,  the  pockets  of 
the  shabby  mackintosh  distended  to  bursting-point. 

"No,  no,  don't  touch  them!  If  I  lose  my  hold  on  one  I 
shall  drop  all!"  Her  eyes  were  glowing,  her  face  more 
flushed  than  he  had  ever  seen  it. 

"  The  shops  were  crowded ;  everyone  seemed  to  be 
shopping.  Such  an  odd  hour!  And  such  funny  shops — they 
looked  as  if  they  were  closed;  but  they  weren't,  luckily!" 
She  stumbled  up  the  two  flights  of  stairs;  so  steep  that 
Vortonitch,  following,  had  to  hold  back  the  sides  of  the 
mackintosh  lest  she  stumbled  over  them. 

By  the  time  they  reached  his  rooms  he  was  trembling,  so 
that  he  was  forced  to  sink  into  a  chair. 

"  I  thought  you  were  never  coming.  I  thought  I  had  lost 
you — my  dear,  my  dear." 

"Silly!" 

"  I  thought  you'd  gone  back  to  them." 

"Ah,  you  might  have  known  better."  She  touched  his 
hair  in  passing;  but  she  would  not  allow  herself  to  be  drawn 
down  to  him,  beguiled  from  the  business  she  had  in  hand. 

"You're  ill,  fanciful,  because  you're  starving — that's  what 
it  is,"  she  said. 

He  had  never  seen  her  so  set,  so  serious;  she  was  trying  to 
remember  the  housewifery  lessons  she  had  had  during  the  last 
term  at  school.  She  did  not  dare  attempt  an  omelette,  there 
in  Soho,  but  she  poached  eggs,  fried  bacon,  made  tea,  set  it  all 
out  on  the  one  little  table,  piling  everything  else  upon  the 
already  overladen  sideboard — with  a  brick  in  the  place  of 
one  foot,  and  one  crooked  drawer  which  would  never  shut. 

She  had  brought  a  little  round  cheese,  dried  figs,  a  bottle  of 
wine.  The  whole  meal  was  a  pathetic  intermingling  of  what 
she  liked  and  what  she  thought  he  would  like.  "  You  must 
eat  very  slowly,  or  you'll  make  yourself  ill,  after  being  so  long 
without  food,"  she  said,  watchful  as  a  mother  bird. 

She  had  even  brought  him  cigars,  those  Italian  things  with 
that  oddly-wicked  look  which  these  cigars  have  to  the  English 
mind,  like  pointed  moustaches,  slanting  eyebrows;  and  when 
they  had  finished  eating  she  insisted  that  he  should  sit  down  by 
the  window  and  smoke,  while  she  washed  up,  tidied  the  room. 


LAURA  CREICHTON  177 

He  was  glad  to  obey.  Now  that  the  restlessness,  the 
faintness  of  hunger,  was  over,  he  felt  deadly  tired,  and  yet 
peaceful,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  was  experiencing  the 
joys  of  being  looked  after. 

It  pleased  him  to  watch  Laura;  her  fair  hair,  her  long 
white  hands  fascinated  him,  there  in  that  small,  sordid  place, 
as  they  had  never  done  before.  Her  concentration  upon  the 
business  in  hand  was  wholly  delightful.  What  a  child! — a 
child  going  through  a  well-learnt  task  with  infinite  care. 

She  disappeared  into  his  bedroom,  and  he  heard  the  spurt 
of  a  match;  light  flowing  through  the  half -open  door.  What 
was  she  doing?  What  could  she  be  doing?  A  warm  excite- 
ment and  languor  flooded  through  his  veins.  If — entirely  of 
her  own  choice — if  .  .  . 

He  was  almost  smiling  when  she  came  back,  that  sort  of 
smile  which  would  have  been  completely  fatal,  besmirching; 
but,  thank  God,  not  quite. 

As  she  passed  the  little  sideboard  she  picked  up  her  hat. 

"  I've  turned  down  your  bed,"  she  said.  "  Tidied  the 
room  as  well  as  I  could — as  well  as  possible." 

"My  God!"  cried  Vortonitch  to  himself.  "My  God,  my 
God,  my  God!  These  Englishwomen!" 

"  And  the  best  thing  you  can  do  now  is  to  go  there  straight 
away — stay  there  until  ten  o'clock  to-morrow;  until  I  come 
and  get  you  some  coffee;  until " 

"And  you?"  he  broke  in  sharply.  He  could  not  help  it. 
He  had  known  that  she  could  not  stay  there,  had  told  himself 
that  he  would  not  have  her  stay  there  on  any  consideration 
whatever;  but  that  she — she — should  be  so  cool,  so  ... 
Oh,  but  it  was  just  blague,  could  not  be  anything  but  blague. 
After  all,  he  had  been  mistaken  in  her;  she  was  a  woman  of 
the  world,  like  all  women. 

"  There's  a  funny  little  old-fashioned  hotel  in  Dover  Street. 
called  Brown's.  I  stayed  there  once  with  Dad — we  were  all  at 
the  sea,  "  The  House  "  was  shut  up,  and  he  brought  me  up  to 
the  dentist." 

"But " 

"It's  no  distance,  dear.  I  know  the  way;  I  can  walk. 
All  my  cousins  and  people  stay  there — it's  really  quite  nice." 

She  said  that  almost  as  her  mother  might  have  said  it — 
"  quite  nice."  Then,  on  a  sudden,  her  candid  eyes  dilated, 
clouded,  her  face  flushed;  she  made  the  first  movement  of 
embarrassment  that  she  had  shown  since  she  entered  the 
room. 


178  LAURA  CREICHTON 

"Just  until  to-morrow,  you  see,  dear.  I  can't  stay  here 
until — until " 

"Until  what?"  enquired  Paul  cruelly.  He  did  not  want 
her  to  stay — God  knows  he  did  not  want  her  to  stay — but,  all 
the  same,  he  felt  somehow  or  other  defrauded. 

For  a  moment  or  so  she  stood  silent;  her  gaze  full  on  him, 
not  doubting,  just  a  little  puzzled,  that  was  all. 

"Well?" 

"I  suppose  there  are  special  licences,  and — and — things.  .  . 
Then,  Paul,  if  you  don't  mind  having  me  without  a  trousseau 
— I  could  come  here  and  look  after  you.  It's  no  good  us  being 
apart,  when — when — I  should  be  so  awfully  lonely,  I  ..." 
Her  voice  faltered,  broke. 

He  was  touched  at  this — what  man  would  not  have  been? 
— and,  taking  her  hand,  laid  it  to  his  cheek,  his  pique,  his 
suspicion  all  melted  away;  laughing  a  little,  tenderly. 
"Laura,  child,  how  much  money  have  you?" 

She  laughed,  relieved  at  this.  There  was  always  some- 
thing rather  amusing  about  money.  It  was  one  of  the  things 
which  everyone  she  knew  talked  about  more  or  less  jokingly. 

"My  dear,  I  am  pretty  well  stony-broke!" 

"  But  how  much?"  he  persisted. 

"I  started  off  with  just  on  two  pounds;  it's  almost  the 
time  for  my  allowance,  really:  but  with  the  things  I've  bought 
this  evening — money  does  slip  away  so!  Anyhow,  there's 
some  loose  silver."  She  peered  into  her  purse. 

"Enough  for  the  hotel?" 

"They'll  trust  me;  they " 

"At  this  time  of  night?     It's  just  on  eleven." 

"Oh,  not  so  late  as  that!"  A  half -scared  look  came  into 
her  face. 

"  Yes,  five  to  eleven.  With  no  luggage,  not  even  a  coat  or 
cloak,  or  handbag?"  He  pressed  her  remorselessly. 

"  I  think — perhaps  they'd  remember  me." 

"Laura,  you  don't  wan't  to  be  remembered;  if  they  did 
that,  they'd  telegraph  off  to  your  father,  the  first  thing." 

"Oh,  well,  I  can  go  to  another  hotel.  There  are  a  lot 
near  the  British  Museum;  I've  seen  them.  You'll  lend  me  a 
little  more."  She  had  never  thought  that  she  could  feel  ill  at 
ease  with  him,  but  now  .  .  .  Oh,  well,  money  could  be  tire- 
some, the  discussion  of  it  awkward!  "Very  little,  just  for 
one  night." 

"  I  haven't  got  any.  If  I'd  had  money,  I'd  have  gone  out 
to  dinner;  you  wouldn't  have  found  me  here." 


LAURA  CREICHTON  179 

"What?  Then  ,  ,  ,  that  .  .  .  Why  .  .  .  Paul!  ...  you 
were  starving!" 

"  No,  no.  I  could  have  got  it  if  I  had  gone  out  and  asked 
for  it  before  the  newspaper's  office  shut;  I'm  owed  money. 
But  I  had  felt  ill  all  day — was  too  wretched,  despairing,  to 
trouble — until  you  came  .  .  ." 

Suddenly  he  remembered  how  wretched,  how  despairing  he 
had  been,  and  dropped  that  teasing  manner  which  hurt  her  so. 

"Laura,  dear  one,  beloved,  well  be  married  as  soon  as 
ever  we  can.  I'm  a  selfish  beast;  I've  no  business  to  allow 
you  to  do  it,  but  I  shall  never  be  safe,  never  be  happy,  without 
you.  Still,  it  may  take  some  days;  I  must  get  a  little  money 
in  hand.  Now,  listen,  dear.  Hotel  bills  mount  up,  however 
careful  you  are;  everything  costs  money.  Besides,  with  no 
luggage,  or  anything,  they  might  not  be  civil  to  you;  you'd 
be  lonely,  unhappy!  We  must  think  of  something  else." 

He  moved  to  the  window  and  stood  by  the  lintel,  staring 
out,  thinking.  He  had  plenty  of  aquaintainces,  of  sorts,  but 
who  .  .  .  who?  .  .  .  Why,  of  course!  The  Grobos! 

"I've  a  friend  who  lives  not  very  far  from  here;  he's 
married  and  has  children,  a  nice  little  wife.  Not  very  grand 
people — rather  crowded  up — but  they'd  look  after  you  all 
right." 

"But — would  they  mind?  They  don't  know  me,  and  if 
they're  crowded  up  already " 

"Mind?  Of  course  they  won't  mind.  They'll  love  to 
have  you.  Why,  there  never  were  such  kind  people;  over- 
flowing with  the  milk  of  human  kindness!  Come,  now; 
you'd  better  go  back  to  the  coat." 

He  reached  for  the  mackintosh,  held  it  for  her.  "You 
look  such  a  swell,  you'll  frighten  them." 

The  idea  of  Laura  frightening  anyone!  She  looked 
frightened  herself,  and  a  little  bewildered  now  that  the 
management  of  affairs  was  being  taken  out  of  her  own  hands 
— it  was  that,  after  all,  which  had  given  her  such  sureness — 
her  face  pale,  her  eyes  all  dark  rims,  dark  pupils,  betwixt  the 
curving  brim  of  her  hat,  the  yellow  collar  of  the  mackintosh 
which  Vortonitch  was  buttoning  close  up  to  her  throat. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

CERTAIN  phases  of  the  emotional  life,  certain  periods  of 
time  are  pieced  out  by  unforgettable  moments.  During  the 
happy  days  there  is  a  sudden  rent  of  blackness,  a  strip  of  dead- 
grey:  across  the  darkness  of  other  days  runs  a  vivid  thread  of 
silk  or  metal.  It  is  all  like  a  piece  of  old-fashioned  patch- 
work; you  move  away  from  it,  glance  back,  and  this  or  that 
catches  your  eye. 

Years  later,  as  a  middle-aged  woman,  the  memory  of  her 
first  meeting  with  Vortonitch  would  return  to  Laura:  the 
very  look  of  those  bewildering  roads;  the  scent  of  the  dust; 
the  sight  of  his  red  tie,  the  pose  of  his  figure.  Then  there  was 
the  look  upon  the  face  of  that  fat  man,  who  had  so  suddenly 
debouched  into  her  life  and  out  again,  as  he  put  the  question: 
"Ever  seen  him  coming  from  Woolwich?"  Added  to  all 
this  there  was,  and  would  forever  remain,  her  first  impression 
of  the  Grobo  menage. 

Three  flights  of  stairs  led  up  to  their  flat;  each  one  steeper 
than  the  last.  The  day  had  been  so  long,  so  full — amazing  to 
think  that  early  that  very  afternoon  she  had  been  playing 
tennis  in  a  tree-embowered  suburban  garden! — that  by  this 
time  she  was  half  blind  with  weariness. 

Vortonitch  took  her  arm,  and  then  put  his  own  about  her 
waist  as  she  stumbled. 

They  stood  for  some  time — any  sort  of  time,  it  might  have 
been  moments  or  hours — upon  a  dark  landing,  while  he  pulled 
at  a  bell  from  which  there  was  no  answering  echo,  apart  from 
the  jangle  of  wire. 

"  The  confounded  thing's  broken,"  Laura  heard  him  say, 
and  his  voice  seemed  to  come  from  far  away,  though  he  was  so 
near  to  her.  The  atmosphere  was  intensely  close,  and  she  had 
that  feeling,  arising  from  intense  fatigue,  of  being  hung  in 
nothingness,  apart  from  all  limits  of  time  or  space.  Utterly 
mazed,  she  found  herself  wondering  if  she  were  really  herself; 
how  she  came  to  be  there,  what  she  was  doing  there,  who  this 
man  was,  with  his  arm  about  her  waist.  In  the  reaction  from 
the  heat  of  the  day  she  shivered;  and  it  seemed  as  though 

180 


LAURA  CREICHTON  181 

someone  were  pouring  cold  water  down  her  back,  the  thin  icy 
trickle  checked  by  the  warm  weight  of  that  arm. 

Then  Vortonitch  stopped  ringing,  and  knocked  with  his 
hand  upon  the  panelling  of  the  door:  there  was  the  sound  of 
someone  moving  inside,  and  a  woman  with  a  baby  in  her  arms 
opened  it. 

"  It's  I— Paul  Vortonitch.    Is  Carl  at  home?" 

"No;  and  I  don't  know  when  he  will  be  back — there  is  a 
meeting.  But  you're  not  alone?" 

"  No;  I  have  a  lady  with  me.     Will  you  let  us  in?" 

"Of  course,  of  course.  Come  in.  Charles,  Charles! 
Ah,  you  bad  boy !  You  had  no  right  to  get  out  of  bed.  Lily, 
Lily!" 

She  raised  her  voice,  a  deep  contralto.  There  was  no  light 
in  the  passage  beyond  that  of  the  moon,  shining  straight  in 
through  a  window  opposite  to  the  door,  but  Laura  saw  that 
she  was  of  middle  height,  squarely-built,  deep-breasted.  A 
tiny  child  in  a  white  nightdress  clung  to  her  skirt,  burying  its 
head  in  it.  As  she  called,  a  door  at  the  end  of  the  long 
narrow  passage,  to  the  left  of  them,  opened  suddenly;  there 
was  a  stream  of  light,  a  sort  of  struggle,  and  another  child 
hurtled  towards  them,  crying  out,  "Papa — papa!" — pursued 
by  an  older  girl  with  a  fair  head  and  two  long  plaits. 

"Teh,  tch!"  The  exclamation  was  impatient,  but  the 
tone  tolerant,  amused  even.  "This  is  what  happens  when 
anyone  unexpected  arrives.  You  must  make  your  apologies 
to  your  friend,  Paul.  Take  Cora  and  the  baby,  my  daughter; 
come  now,  Charles,  come  with  thy  mother.  This  way, 
Mademoiselle." 

She  marshalled  her  small  forces:  the  young  girl,  who  had 
leant  against  the  wall,  panting  and  coughing,  took  the  baby 
from  her  arms,  the  child  at  her  knee  by  her  hand,  and  moved 
off,  while  the  mother  turned  towards  the  open  door,  shoving 
the  other  toddler  in  front  of  her. 

"  It  is  such  a  little  place,  Mademoiselle,  and  we  are  so 
many,  you  must  excuse;  but  any  friend  of  Paul's  is  welcome." 
There  was  a  gentle  affection  in  her  voice  as  she  uttered  the 
name  "  Paul  "  which  touched  Laura  with  a  sense  of  comfort : 
instinctively  she  liked  the  woman,  her  quiet  manner  and  deep- 
toned  voice. 

It  was  impossible  for  her  to  place  the  room  into  which  she 
was  shown,  for  the  simple  reason  that  in  every  direction  in 
which  she  glanced  her  eye  met  something  which  seemed  to 
suggest  a  different  use  for  it:  a  shelf  of  pots  and  pans; 


182  LAURA  CREICHTON 

household  china;  books;  clothes  hung  to  air  on  a  string 
above  the  gas  cooking-stove;  that  battered  wooden  horse,  so 
familiar  to  the  habitues  of  the  place,  tethered  to  the  leg  of  the 
centre  table,  at  which  a  sallow-faced  boy  was  working  out 
sums  upon  a  slate,  a  broad-headed  medley  of  figures,  running 
off  into  narrow  flourishing  tails. 

"  I  will  put  this  good-for-nothing  in  his  bed,  and  come  to 
you."  Mrs.  Grobo  stooped  and  raised  the  small  child,  with 
its  immense,  staring  dark  eyes,  in  her  arms;  then  moved  to  a 
door  leading  from  the  living-room  into  a  bedroom,  from  which 
came  another  hoarse  childish  voice,  demanding  who  was  there. 

Laura,  overcome  with  weariness,  sank  down  on  the  sofa, 
dipping  sideways  upon  the  broken  springs;  while  the  boy  at 
the  table  glanced  up  at  her,  then  bent  over  his  figures,  running 
down  and  across  the  columns  with  his  pencil,  muttering  to 
himself. 

The  fair  elder  girl  came  back  into  the  room,  and  leant 
against  the  side  of  the  open  window,  coughing. 

"Lily,  where  did  you  get  that  cough?"  demanded 
Vortonitch,  with  a  sort  of  peremptory  tenderness;  moving 
towards  her  and  raising  her  chin  between  his  finger  and 
thumb. 

*'  Oh,  I  don't  know,  Paul ;  it's  been  coming  on."  She 
leant  closer,  and  whispered — Laura  heard  her — "Who  is 
she?"  But  Vortonitch  took  no  notice  of  the  question, 
meeting  it  with  another. 

"What  does  the  doctor  say?" 

"  He  says  it's  a  cold.  As  if  anyone  could  have  a  cold  in 
weather  like  this!  Oh,  Paul,  isn't  it  hot!" 

Vortonitch  sat  down,  and  she  leant  against  his  shoulder, 
with  a  deep  sigh,  gazing  at  Laura. 

From  the  inner  room  came  the  sound  of  gentle  remon- 
strance; a  bar  or  so  of  a  lullaby,  hummed  in  that  deep 
contralto. 

The  young  girl,  twelve  or  thirteen  years  of  age,  as  well  as 
Laura  was  able  to  judge,  was  staring  at  her  as  though  she  were 
trying  to  read  her  through  and  through.  After  a  moment  or 
so,  she  raised  both  hands,  and  undoing  her  plaits,  shook  out  the 
long  fair  hair,  so  that  it  covered  both  Vortonitch's  shoulders 
and  her  own. 

Through  the  silence  of  the  room,  intensified  rather  than 
broken  by  the  murmur  in  the  room  beyond,  came  Vortonitch's 
low  voice,  with  laughter  in  it. 

"Why  did  you  do  that,  little  one?" 


LAURA  CREICHTON  183 

He  looked  down  at  the  child  quizzically,  and  Laura  won- 
dered why  she  coloured,  the  brilliant  rose  in  either  cheek 
spreading  over  her  face  and  down  her  neck  between  the  falling 
wings  of  hair. 

"  It  is  so  hot  done  up  like  that!" 

"As  if  I  did  not  know  better!  You  undid  it  because  Made- 
moiselle has  hair  of  the  same  colour;  you  want  to  show  her 
how  thick  and  long  yours  is  ...  Oh,  minx!" 

"No,  no,  no,  Paul!     No!" 

She  buried  her  face  against  his  shoulder,  and  he  laughed, 
tickling  her  gently;  while  Laura  wondered — through  that 
maze  of  fatigue  which  grew  until  she  now  felt  as  though 
someone  had  hit  her  violently  on  the  head,  and  half  stunned 
her — how  he  came  to  think  of  such  a  thing;  knowing  that  it 
was  true,  and  yet  with  a  sudden  sharp  stab  of  fear  at  the  thought 
of  anyone  who  could  see  so  clearly,  be  so  amused  at  the 
weakness  of  another. 

"  She  is  full  of  sentiment,"  said  the  boy  at  the  table.  "  I 
wonder  that  you  can  be  bothered  with  her,  Vortonitch.  She 
has  no  more  brains  than  a  silkworm — which  she  looks  like, 
spun  round  with  all  that  yellow  stuff."  He  gave  a  loud  self- 
conscious  laugh,  and  glanced  sideways  at  Laura;  then,  as  his 
mother  entered  the  room,  pulled  a  book  towards  him,  opened  it 
and  bent  over  it. 

Vortonitch  rose  to  his  feet,  putting  the  little  girl  gently 
on  one  side;  moved  towards  Laura,  and  bending  down  took 
her  hand  in  his,  raising  her  to  her  feet. 

"  Mrs.  Grobo,  this  is  my  future  wife." 

"  That  is  well,  Paul ;  it  is  good  for  a  man  to  get  married. 
Hush,  Albert — quiet,  I  tell  you!"  She  turned  aside  for  a 
moment  to  her  son,  who  had  looked  up  laughing  loudly  and 
pointing  his  finger  at  his  sister. 

"  A  sell  for  you,  miss!  Ya-ah — 'Lily  Vortonitch' — who 
wrote  that  in  their  copy-book,  eh?" 

"I  didn't!  I  didn't,  I  tell  you — you  spy,  you!  I 

never "  The  girl's  voice  broke  between  shamed  laughter 

and  tears. 

"Silence,  at  once,  do  you  hear  me?"  Mrs.  Grobo  turned 
upon  the  teasing  boy  with  a  sort  of  majestic  wrath;  that 
dignity  of  a  woman  who  seemed  to  swing  entirely  upon  her 
own  axle,  moved  by  an  innate  sureness  and  balance. 

"  She  has  left  her  own  home :  her  people  do  not  fancy  me 
as  a  son-in-law — is  that  not  the  case,  dear? — and  so  I  have 
brought  her  to  you,  Madame,"  went  on  Vortonitch. 


184  LAURA  CREICHTON 

"Of  course;  that  was  the  proper  thing  to  do." 

Laura  glanced  shyly  at  Vortonitch;  saw  him  excited, 
flushed,  proud;  then  at  the  motherly  woman  facing  her,  and 
felt  at  once,  in  her  fatigue  and  loneliness — that  sort  of  loneli- 
ness which  no  man,  however  well  loved,  can  do  anything  to 
altogether  overcome  in  a  woman's  mind — that  she  would  like 
to  lay  her  head  against  that  broad  breast  and  feel  those  kind 
arms  about  her. 

"  I  thought  perhaps  you  would  keep  her  for  to-night — for  a 
night  or  two,  until  we  can  be  married." 

"Of  course,  of  course;  there  is  always  the  sofa." 

It  was  all  so  simple;  there  was  no  talk  of  "  arrange- 
ments"; and  Laura  sank  into  it,  this  kindness,  this  sim- 
plicity, as  into  a  feather-bed. 

Suddenly  it  seemed  as  though  the  sofa,  that  hospitable 
sofa,  rose  up  to  meet  her.  The  light  hanging  from  the  ceiling 
grew  immensely  large,  filmed  over  with  a  thick  grey  mist 
which  obscured  the  rest  of  the  world  and  everyone  in  it; 
through  it  she  heard  Mrs.  Grobo's  voice: 

"  She  is  tired  out ;  you  must  leave  her  to  me." 

Then  Vortonitch,  anxious  and  questioning :  "  She  is  ill ! 
What  is  it,  my  darling?  Are  you  ill — faint?" 

As  she  leant  back,  there  was  something  soft  against  her 
face.  Lily's  silk-like  hair,  Lily's  arms,  like  sticks,  were  about 
her,  all  jealousy  forgotten,  in  a  sort  of  hereditary  motherliness. 

"Never  mind.  There,  there!  I  will  love  you  if  he  loves 
you — there,  there,  now!"  A  childish  hand  was  patting  her 
shoulder,  and  someone  lifted  up  her  feet,  while  the  greyness 
thickened  to  a  dense  black.  Then  someone  kissed  her  on  the 
cheek — that  was  Vortonitch;  she  knew  that;  and  that  was 
all  she  knew  ere  she  dropped  into  something  which  began  as  a 
half-faint  and  merged  into  a  deep  dreamless  sleep. 

Only  once  that  night  did  she  open  her  eyes.  Someone 
was  stirring  in  the  room:  someone  said,  "Hush!" — then 
someone  else,  a  man  this  time,  asked: 

"Who  is  it?"  There  was  the  faint  light  of  a  candle 
shining  through  her  closed  lids;  then  that  same  voice 
answered  its  own  question. 

"Why— the  General's  daughter!    'Ow  the " 

It  was  here  that  Laura  opened  her  eyes,  and  saw  a  small, 
fat  man,  with  a  round  face,  bending  over  her,  staring  at  her 
with  amazement,  that  rippled  out  into  a  broad  cherubic  smile. 

"  All  right,  my  dear,"  he  said.  "  You're  all  right  'ere — 
all  right  with  'er." 


CHAPTER  XX 

Two  days  later — two  days  spent  in  the  dream-like  atmos- 
phere of  the  Grobos'  house,  so  oddly  alien  and  yet  so  altogether 
homelike — for  that  is  a  quality  to  be  found  in  the  atmosphere 
and  not  in  any  specially  familiar  surroundings — Laura  Creich- 
ton  was  married.  The  brief,  drab  ceremony  at  a  registrar's 
office  was  followed  by  a  shortened  week  in  a  little  inn  on  the 
river  below  Oxford:  a  week  during  which  the  intense  heat 
seemed  to  have  been  lost  in  a  pearly  mist,  through  which  the 
sun  filtered  in  a  delicate  haze  that  matched  her  mood:  for  she 
was  still  bewildered,  wrapped  in  happiness  and  doubt;  not  of 
Vortonitch — never,  never  of  him — but  of  herself,  of  the  reality 
of  this  self,  the  reality  of  her  new  life. 

Thinking  back  over  that  brief  honeymoon — from  which 
they  returned  to  a  couple  of  rooms  Mrs.  Grobo  had  found  for 
them  in  Charterhouse  Square — Laura's  memories  were, 
curiously  enough,  not  so  much  of  Vortonitch  as  of  the  weeping 
plumes  of  grey  willows;  still  grey  pools  untouched  by  the 
swirl  of  the  river;  dull  green  arrow-heads;  verbena-scented 
rushes;  the  smell  of  the  river,  one  special  backwater,  thick 
with  white-lilies;  and  the  long  trail  back  to  the  farmhouse  at 
night,  when  they  trudged  home,  swinging  an  empty  picnic- 
basket  between  them,  the  grass  wet  with  dew  about  her 
ankles;  the  little  winds  of  evening  just  stirring  the  loose 
straws  in  the  stackyard;  a  slip  of  moon,  thickening  towards 
fulness,  overhead;  a  bowl  of  bread-and-milk  in  the  parlour,  a 
handful  of  fire  in  the  grate;  a  sense  of  infinite  drowsiness,  and 
then — memories  shut  away  from  all  actual,  definite  recalling. 

Settled  in  Charterhouse  Square,  in  an  old  Georgian  house, 
with  such  finely-proportioned  rooms,  such  tall  windows  as 
even  the  lodging-house  furniture  was  unable  altogether  to 
spoil,  she  slowly  emerged  from  her  dream;  not  less  happy,  but 
grave  with  the  sense  of  responsibility,  of  her  husband's  com- 
plete dependence  upon  her.  For  at  the  time  it  pleased  Vor- 
tonitch— wrapped  in  adoration,  as  one-idea'd  in  love  as  in 
everything  else — to  lean  upon  his  wife  in  everything,  to  refer 
to  her,  to  put  all  the  arrangements  of  ways  and  means,  of  their 

185 


186  LAURA  CREICHTON 

small  housekeeping,  upon  her  young  shoulders;  to  shrug  his 
own  and  say  to  Mrs.  Grobo,  "You  must  ask  Laura;  Laura 
knows."  Or  to  Madame  of  Le  Cygne  d'Or,  "You  must  ask 
my  wife  for  the  money;  it's  she  who  holds  the  purse-strings — 
no  good  bringing  a  bill  to  me." 

One  matter  only  was  kept  from  her — and  this  the  most 
important  of  all,  as  is  the  way  of  men  with  their  wives — the 
meaning  and  origin  of  his  association  with  Grobo. 

He  was  all  for  peace  in  these  days,  idyllic  peace:  it  w_as 
impossible  that  the  world  should  be  so  out  of  tune  as  it  had 
seemed;  impossible  that  people  should  be  altogether  unhappy, 
save  through  some  fault  of  their  own,  when  such  happiness 
as  his  was  within  the  reach  of  all. 

Everything  was  all  very  well  as  it  was;  there  was  no  sense 
or  reason  in  stirring  up  horrors. 

"All  'The  People'  want  is  to  be  let  alone,"  he  told  Grobo. 
"  I  for  one  have  done  with  it,  once  and  for  all." 

He  had  been  as  nervous  as  he  could  be  of  anyone  in  telling 
Grobo  this;  but  the  little  man  had  taken  it  smilingly.  "Ah, 
well,  well — you  are  in  love,  my  friend,  and  we  all  know  what 
that  means:  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth." 

That  air  of  keen,  almost  antagonistic  watchfulness  was 
gone,  not  only  from  Grobo  but  from  his  other  comrades  also; 
even  Stein  was  almost  genial. 

"  All  very  well,"  he  said,  "  so  long  as  you  involve  no  one 
but  yourself;  not  like  Grobo  here — Grobo  with  his  one  and 
fatal  failing  of  progenitiveness." 

At  times  it  occurred  to  Vortonitch  to  wonder  if  they  were 
rather  relieved  to  have  him  out  of  it:  regarding  him  with  the 
tolerance  one  shows  to  an  enfant  gate  or  semi-lunatic.  But  on 
the  whole,  he  troubled  his  head  remarkably  little  about  anyone 
or  anything  apart  from  Laura,  entranced  in  delight  over  his 
new  home,  his  first  real  home,  this  wonderful  young  wife  of  his. 

Together  they  explored  London;  the  romance  of  London, 
historical  London,  London  of  the  old  merchant  princes, 
London  of  the  riverside  and  dockland;  the  city  churches, 
weighted  with  their  years,  like  old,  old  men  with  their  heads 
upon  their  hands,  dreaming  of  the  past;  the  great  markets; 
the  odd,  narrow  streets,  lined  with  barrows,  bright  with 
creosote  flares,  loud  with  the  cries  of  the  traders  inviting  people 
to  buy:  ribands,  laces,  furs,  meat,  vegetables,  stewed  eels, 
hot  potatoes,  china,  pots,  pans:  buying  and  selling  as  it 
might  have  been  a  couple  ot  centuries  earlier. 

Among  all  this  the  two  of  them  strolled,  with  that  sense  of 


LAURA  CREICHTON  187 

leisure,  so  altogether  illusive,  which  comes  of  love,  the  least 
stationary  of  all  the  passions:  Laura  alive  to  every  sight  and 
sound,  understanding  the  expression  upon  people's  faces,  and 
things  they  said,  as  she  had  never  done  before;  moving  on  and 
on  until,  too  tired  to  walk  any  more,  they  turned  into  some 
old  church,  or  some  quiet  square,  and  sat  down  upon  a  bench, 
their  shoulders  touching,  the  dry  plane-trees  whispering 
huskily  overhead,  the  leaves  already  falling,  the  moist  chill  of 
autumn  in  the  evening  air,  ribands  and  pennants  of  mist 
along  the  river.  And  all  this  while  Laura,  who  had  always 
been  such  a  good,  obedient  child,  such  a  home-bird,  with,  for 
the  time  being,  no  more  thought  of  her  parents — worlds  away 
in  Blackheath — than  any  bird  at  its  mating.  For  as  she  had 
been  brought  up  so  altogether  theirs,  she  was  now,  with  some 
odd  twist  of  the  mechanism  of  her  being,  some  need  of  her 
nature,  as  completely  her  husband's. 

Sometimes,  dining  together  at  Le  Cygne  d'Or,  strange, 
hectic-looking  women  would  stare  hardly  at  Laura.  One 
evening  one  of  them  touched  Vortonitch  on  the  shoulder  and 
bent  over  him,  so  low  that  her  full  breast  showed  between  the 
laces  of  her  blouse,  while  a  heavy  wave  of  perfume  swept  the 
air  above  the  table. 

"Who's  the  lady,  my  dear?     Where  the  devil " 

"  My  wife,"  answered  Vortonitch  stiffly;  upon  which  she 
stared  at  Laura  again,  ejaculated,  "My  God!"  and  swept  by 
to  a  table  at  the  further  end  of  the  room,  where  she  sat  down 
among  some  friends,  and,  bending  forward  with  a  glass  in  one 
hand — tapping  upon  the  table  with  the  other,  diamonds,  of  a 
sort,  flashing  upon  every  finger — embarked  upon  a  voluble 
conversation,  punctuated  by  an  occasional  backward  jerk  of 
her  head. 

It  was  impossible  to  hear  what  she  was  saying,  but  not 
only  that  jerk  of  the  head,  but  the  way  in  which  the  others 
turned,  staring,  pointed  her  remarks,  and  Laura  felt  her  face 
redden,  feeling  countrified  and  ill  at  ease:  while  Vortonitch 
was  furious. 

"Damn  the  bitch!  Damn  their  impertinence!"  he 
exclaimed.  "I'll  soon  stop  that!" 

He  half-rose  from  his  chair,  then  sat  down  again,  crumbling 
his  bread,  muttering  something  about  it  not  being  "worth 
mixing  oneself  up  with  people  like  that " ;  never,  never  coming 
here  again,  bringing  Laura  here  again. 

A  month  or  so  ago  he  would  have  had  them  under  his 
thumb,  and  he  knew  it;  could  have  silenced  the  lot  of  them 


188  LAURA  CREICHTON 

with  one  glance.  Not  that  the  hectic  lady  or  her  companions 
knew  anything  definitely — far  from  that — but  they  were  of 
that  sort  which,  like  other  animals,  realise  conscious  power 
and  arrogance.  All  that  was  gone  now,  and  Vortonitch  knew 
it,  felt  it,  suddenly,  and  through  every  fibre  of  his  being,  with 
a  sense  of  desperate  discontent.  He  was  living  a  normal 
man's  life,  but  because  it  was  not  his  sort  of  life  it  was  emascu- 
lating him.  After  all,  there  were  so  many  harmless  people  in 
the  world  that  the  thing  had  become  a  term  of  reproach. 
With  an  overwhelming  feeling  of  revolt,  of  injured  vanity,  it 
came  to  him  that  this  was  what  people  might  be  saying: 

"Vortonitch?    Paul  Vortonitch?     Oh,  harmless  enough!" 

He  rose  to  his  feet  and  pushed  back  the  table,  grating  on 
the  stone  floor. 

"  I  suppose  we've  finished.  Might  as  well  get  out  of 
this,"  he  said,  and  stood  fidgeting  impatiently  as  Laura  got 
into  her  coat;  then,  just  as  they  turned  to  go,  asked  her  if 
she  would  like  some  coffee,  which  she  refused  with  a  feeling 
that  it  was  almost  as  much  as  her  life  was  worth  to  accept 
the  offer,  delay  him  further. 

Paying  their  bill  at  the  desk,  he  snarled:  "Can't  always 
congratulate  you  on  your  clientele,  Madame,"  adding,  with  a 
nod  of  his  head  toward  the  corner  where  the  same  group  had 
turned  and  were  frankly  staring  after  him  and  his  wife: 
"That  lot  there  oughtn't  to  be  allowed  in  any  decent  house." 

Madame  said  nothing,  counting  out  his  change;  but  as  he 
turned  away  she  glanced  at  Laura,  raised  her  plump  shoulders 
ever  so  slightly,  and  smiled: 

"Men — just  men,"  she  seemed  tp  say. 

They  walked  home  almost  without  a  word.  Turning  into 
the  quiet  of  the  old  square,  however,  Vortonitch  slipped  his 
hand  inside  his  wife's  arm:  "How  different  it  is  here,  with  the 
trees  and  the  moonlight,  the  quietness,  and  you!  You  must 
never  leave  me  for  a  day,  Laura;  never,  never.  I'm  not  fit  to 
be  left  alone.  In  that  infernal  place  to-night,  with  those 
people,  I  saw  red,  could  have  killed  the  lot  of  them.  Come 
on,  beloved;  let's  go  upstairs  and  smoke  over  our  coffee,  ten 
thousand  times  better  than  the  stuff  at  Le  Cygne  d'Or.  I'll  be 
hanged  if  I  ever  take  you  there  again;  it's  not  a  fit  place  for 
you,  with  all  that  riff-raff." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

IN  the  house  in  Charterhouse  Square,  Gerald  Stratton,  alone 
of  all  Laura's  old  friends,  came  to  see  them,  came  again  and 
again:  curiously  puzzled,  unable  to  keep  away,  though  he 
began  by  telling  himself  that  this  was  the  only  thing  to  do ;  his 
purely  personal  feelings  gradually  submerged  beneath  his 
interest,  his  curiosity  regarding  Vortonitch,  his  concern  for 
Laura,  with  all  her  eggs  so  entirely  in  one  basket. 

He  found  her  in  an  environment  completely  strange  to  her; 
and  yet  so  completely  at  home — Laura,  whom,  with  all  his 
affection,  he  had  regarded  as  the  most  conventional  type  of 
English  young  lady — that  he  grew  to  realise  her  as  one  of 
those  women  whose  life  is  lived  in  one  person  alone:  coloured, 
ordered,  bounded. 

Glad  as  she  was  to  see  Stratton,  he  realised  that  she  did 
not  need  him.  At  this  time,  indeed,  she  needed  no  one  apart 
from  her  husband.  Her  conscience  was  not  in  the  least  dis- 
turbed by  the  memory  of  the  way  in  which  she  had  left  home; 
by  any  special  longing  for  her  own  people;  and  at  first  sight 
Stratton  condemned  this,  the  more  sharply  in  that  he  wanted 
to  prove  her  perfect:  ingratitude,  inconstancy,  were  odious 
traits,  odious  in  anyone,  most  odious  of  all  in  Laura. 

"You  ought  to  make  some  effort  towards  reconciliation, 
Laura,"  he  declared,  when  he  was  able  to  find  her  alone,  get 
her  upon  the  subject. 

"But,  Stratty,  Dad  said  at  the  time  that  they'd  never  have 
anything  more  to  do  with  me."  Her  eyes  were  dark  with 
tears;  but  still  there  was  that  slightly  obstinate,  stupid  look 
of  a  person  who  is  only  able  to  see  one  facet  of  anything  at  a 
time.  "Oh,  but  she  is  stupid,  stupid!"  thought  Stratton. 
longing  to  shake  her,  yet  loving  her. 

"Well,  then,  your  mother — she's  simply  breaking  her 
heart." 

"Stratty,  I  can't  help  it;  indeed  I  can't!  If  I  tried  to 
make  it  up  with  her,  it  would  make  it  difficult  for  her  with 
Dad.  I  took  my  choice,  and  he  ought  to  come  first  with  her. 
I've  no  right  to  make  trouble." 

189 


190  LAURA  CREICHTON 

"You  want  to  see  them,  though,  Lolly?  You  do  want  to 
see  them?"  He  was  almost  desperately  anxious  not  to  find 
her  lacking  in  the  virtue  of  faithfulness. 

"  Yes,  of  course  I  want  to  see  them."  Laura  spoke 
obstinately,  stiffened  with  pain.  "But  I  took  my  choice,  and 
not  for  anything — anything  in  the  world — would  I  go  back 
on  it.  So  what's  the  good  of  whining?" 

"You  don't  care;  you  can't  care  much,  or  you  wouldn't 
take  it  like  that.  Laura,  don't  you  ever  long  for  your  home; 
for  everything  you  used  to  care  for?" 

"I've  everything  I  want."  Her  softly-folded  mouth  set: 
"not  so  many  things,  but  everything,  everything." 

That  was  as  much  as  he  could  get  out  of  her,  and  through 
all  this  time  he  was  unable  to  make  out  how  far  she  was  truly 
without  feeling  for  anyone  apart  from  Vortonitch,  and  how 
far  she  would  not  allow  herself  to  feel. 

As  to  Vortonitch,  something  in  Gerald  Stratton's  mind 
seemed  to  fling  up  its  hands  in  despair  at  the  very  thought  of 
him.  Who  was  he?  Where  did  he  come  from?  What  did 
he  do?  Really  do?  Above  all,  what  was  he,  he  himself? 

Oddly  enough,  the  thought  of  Mullings  came  to  him  more 
than  once.  If  any  man  on  earth  could  have  helped  him,  it  was 
Mullings,  and  poor  old  Mullings  was  dead.  And,  after  all, 
what  did  he  want  to  know?  To  have  spied  upon  Vortonitch 
would  have  been  paramount  to  spying  upon  Laura;  and  it 
was  better,  far  away  better,  not  to  know  anything  than  to 
suspect  himself  of  this. 

For  all  that,  he  wondered,  wondered,  wondered  without 
ceasing,  as  he  sat  talking  to  Vortonitch — realising  the  scope 
of  his  travels,  the  innumerable  countries  in  which,  for  no 
expressed  reason,  he  had  lived  at  some  period  or  another — 
what  really  occupied  him;  this  odd,  faun-like  man  who,  at 
times,  resembled  a  mere  boy,  and  was  yet,  very  little,  if  any, 
younger  than  himself. 

Sometimes  they  would  talk  together  for  hours,  with 
Laura  sitting  by,  sewing;  while,  at  the  end  of  it  all,  Stratton 
would  realise  that,  however  much  Vortonitch  talked  of  him- 
self, he  had  told  him  nothing  whatever:  what  he  thought  of  the 
people,  the  scenery,  the  food,  the  political  policy  of  the 
countries  he  visited;  little  adventures  in  train,  by  coach,  on 
foot;  the  general  aspect  of  life;  encounters  in  restaurants, 
at  theatres;  odd  personalities  met  with,  the  state  of  trade: 
all  this — oh  yes,  plenty  of  this — and  all  interesting  enough, 
racy,  well  told,  with  a  perpetual  recurrence  of  "I" — "I*  — 


LAURA  CREICHTON  191 

and  yet  nothing  whatever  of  his  own  motives  in  this  life  of 
constant  movement. 

Once  only  did  any  clue  come  to  him,  to  be  put  aside  as 
quickly  as  possible;  not  because  it  seemed  of  no  use,  rather 
on  account  of  its  sinister  significance. 

Coming  out  of  the  Vortonitches'  rooms  one  day,  he  met 
Grobo;  realised  the  face  as  that  of  a  man  vaguely  remem- 
bered, found  himself  unable  to  place  it,  and  gave  his  brain  no 
rest  until  it  came  back  to  him — as  it  did  suddenly.  Not  the 
memory  of  a  living  man,  after  all,  but  merely  a  photograph, 
a  common  shiny  photograph.  He  not  only  saw  the  photo- 
graph in  his  mind's  eye,  with  the  sharp  clearness  of  anything 
which  has  been  forgotten  and  then  quite  suddenly  remembered, 
but  he  also  saw  the  room  in  which  it  had  been  shown  him;  a 
certain  room  of  the  Criminal  Investigation  Department  at 
Scotland  Yard. 

There,  next  day,  he  learned  all  that  there  was  to  be  learnt 
— or,  rather,  all  that  anyone  was  able  to  tell  him — of  Carl 
Grobo,  and  wished  to  heaven  that  he  had  not.  For  if  this  was 
the  husband  of  the  woman,  the  father  of  the  children,  of 
whom  Laura  had  spoken  with  such  affection,  who  was  Vor- 
tonitch  himself  to  count  such  a  man  among  his  friends? 

It  would  have  been  easier,  far  easier,  to  have  known 
nothing,  cared  for  nothing  apart  from  the  fact  that  Laura  was 
happy;  but  now  that  he  did  know,  Stratton  felt  himself 
bound  by  the  sort  of  duty  one  feels  to  one's  own  kind.  Happy 
as  Laura  might  be,  a  time  was  bound  to  come  when  she  would 
need  someone  to  stand  by  her,  with  such  a  husband,  with  such 
friends. 

At  this  time,  however,  it  seemed  as  though  she  grew  more, 
rather  than  less,  detached.  The  rooms  which  Mrs.  Grobo 
had  taken  for  the  newly-married  couple  were  supposed  to 
include  attendance  and  breakfast,  and  they  had  arranged  to 
get  their  meals  out.  But  Laura,  with  the  instincts  of  a 
housekeeper,  very  soon  discovered  that  nothing  was  done  as 
it  ought  to  be  done,  that  the  constant  dining  at  restaurants 
was  exorbitantly  expensive,  and  had  begun  to  do  the  rooms 
herself,  preparing  simple  meals  for  at  least  two  or  three  days 
in  the  week.  Thus  it  was  that  the  cares  of  a  housewife, 
exaggerated,  as  they  always  are  at  the  very  beginning,  were 
superadded  to  that  engrossment  in  the  new  ways  of  life,  that 
sort  of  maze  which  seems  to  enwrap  the  very  young,  newly- 
married  woman. 

It  seemed  to  Stratton  that  Laura  had  grown;  her  figure 


192  LAURA  CREICHTON 

had  become  fuller;  at  the  same  time  there  were  faint  hollows 
in  either  temple  and  cheek,  and  she  moved  in  a  sort  of  dream, 
as  one  overwrought  by  the  demands  of  life,  the  consciousness 
of  a  vocation,  so  deeply  engrossed  that  he  found  himself 
wondering  if  this  was  all  that  a  women  needed — plenty  to  do 
and  some  man  to  love. 

One  thing,  however,  grew  upon  him  as  he  watched  her. 
Despite  her  tender,  brooding  love,  Laura  was,  in  some  strange 
way,  as  detached  from  her  husband  as  she  was  from  the  rest 
of  the  world;  though  it  would  have  been  impossible  to  explain 
this,  to  balance  it  with  her  engrossment  in  him,  unless  it  were 
by  the  fact  that  she  had  in  every  sense  of  the  word  outgrown 
her  strength,  and  with  it  some  of  that  eager  friendliness  and 
ardour  which  had  been  so  large  a  part  of  her  charm;  was 
languid  with  the  depth  of  feeling  into  which  she  had  pene- 
trated, insensitive  to  any  fresh  excitement. 

Now  and  then  Stratton  would  see  the  colour  flare  up  into 
her  face,  when  Vortonitch  stood  near  her,  touched  her  neck  or 
cheek,  as  he  sometimes  did  in  a  way  which  the  other  man 
regarded  as  a  sort  of  display  of  possession.  But  in  general  her 
attitude  towards  her  husband,  so  much  older  than  herself, 
was  altogether  maternal;  and  Stratton,  realising  this,  realised 
also  its  occasionally  exasperating  effect  upon  Vortonitch,  who, 
rest  in  Laura  as  he  might,  was  yet  overcome  by  bursts  of  im- 
patience, the  desire  for  something  altogether  more  exciting; 
the  fevers,  tempers,  caprices  of  mere  sex. 

As  to  Laura,  this  mother liness  was  in  a  degree  the  effect  of 
that  first  impression  of  her  husband;  superadded  to  it, 
however,  was  a  subconscious  effort  of  self-protection.  For  in 
some  way  he  was  so  childish,  so  regardless  of  her  feelings  that 
she  would  have  suffered  acutely  had  she  once  let  slip  this  vision 
of  him  as  a  child — a  child  of  genius,  it  is  true,  for  she  never 
lost  her  sense  of  wonder  at  his  knowledge,  that  very  command 
of  language  was  sufficient — but  no  less  a  child  in  all  worldly 
matters,  above  all,  in  that  business  of  taking  care  of  himself, 
which  included  taking  care  of  her. 

She  and  little  Lily  Grobo,  coughing  her  soul  out  of  her  frail 
body  by  now,  used  to  have  long,  intimate,  and  tender  dis- 
cussions over  this  radical  helplessness  of  mankind:  for  even 
General  Sir  Harry  Creichton  himself  had  not  been  altogether 
grown  up. 

"As  I  myself  shall  not  live,"  said  Lily,  "I  am  glad  that 
he  should  have  you  to  look  after  him." 

She  spoke  with  condescension,  having  planned  to  marry 


LAURA  CREICHTON  193 

Vortonitch  herself,  arranged  her  wedding-dress,  her  brides- 
maids. As  that  was  now  impossible,  with  the  calm  morbidity 
of  sick  childhood,  she  took  pleasure  in  arranging  the  details  of 
her  own  funeral:  with  a  wreath  of  lilies-of-the-valley  from 
Vortonitch — "Or  one  tall  lily  clasped  in  my  hand;  I  can't 
make  up  my  mind.  I  can't  think  which  I  would  like  best,"  she 
would  say,  and  knit  her  white,  blue-veined  brow,  flushed  and 
troubled. 

When  Laura  suggested  both,  she  became  petulant:  "You 
must  think  that  he  is  made  of  money,  my  poor  Paul!  That 
is  one  thing  that  makes  me  fear,  Laura.  You  are  so  pretty 
and  good,  but  somehow  or  other  you  look  expensive;  and  Paul 
must  not  be  allowed  to  waste  his  money;  he  needs  it  for  him- 
self. He  needs  a  new  winter  coat.  I  see  that.  Have  you 
seen  that  he  needs  a  new  winter  coat?  Ah,  I  thought  not! 
And  there  is  a  button  off  the  one  he  has  now;  it  has  been 
loose  for  weeks.  I  watched  for  it  to  fall,  and  now  it  has 
fallen,"  she  added  with  triumph.  "If  he  is  not  kept  warm  he 
will  get  ill,  and  then  who  will  there  be  to  look  after  him?" 

"  I  will  do  my  best,"  said  Laura  humbly,  infinitely  patient 
in  humouring  the  sick  child. 

"Yes,  yes — but  if  Paul  died  .  .  ."  Her  thoughts  ran 
constantly  upon  death.  "What  a  loss!  A  genius  like  that!" 

Mrs.  Grobo  was  out  shopping,  and  she  was  lying  upon  the 
sofa  in  the  living-room:  a  mere  wraith,  neither  child  nor 
woman,  with  hands  like  little  bundles  of  peeled  sticks;  her 
cheeks  bright  rose-colour,  her  eyes  brilliant. 

"  I  worry  very  much  about  Paul,  I  tell  you  that,  Laura." 
Her  hand  moved  restlessly,  picking  at  the  fluff  of  the  blanket 
that  covered  her;  her  lips  drawn  so  tightly  together  that  they 
showed  perpendicular  lines,  above  and  below  them,  like  an 
old  woman. 

Albert,  busied  over  his  lessons  at  the  table,  jerked  up  his 
dark  head  with  a  harsh  laugh. 

"Don't  you  worry  about  Vortonitch,  my  dear;  he's  well 
able  to  look  after  himself,  is  Comrade  Vortonitch.  Trust 
him!" 

"Why  do  you  call  him  that?"  asked  Laura  idly,  intent 
upon  Lily,  wiping  the  sweat  from  her  brow. 

"Why?  .  .  .  A-a-a-eh,  eh!  You're  right  there.  Why? 
When  he's  no  longer  a  comrade;  gone  over  to  the  enemy's 
camp." 

"What  do  you  mean?     How  dare  you  speak  like  that!" 

Laura's  voice  was  so  severe  that  the  boy's  sallow  face 


194  LAURA  CREICHTON 

flushed;  but  he  glared  at  her  defiantly  as  he  answered: 
"Marrying  an  aristocrat — ah,  what  of  that!" 

Laura  laughed,  and  his  colour  deepened  angrily.  He  was 
never  at  his  ease  with  her:  if  he  walked  by  her  side  he  struck 
at  the  palings  with  his  stick,  made  loud  sarcastic  remarks 
upon  the  passers-by;  at  home  he  aired  his  knowledge,  en- 
deavouring to  dazzle  her  with  dates  and  statistics — "catch 
her  out."  If  she  appealed  to  him,  however,  confessed  her 
ignorance,  he  was  filled  with  pride;  for  in  spite  of  himself  he 
was  fascinated  by  her;  her  look  of  beautiful  cleanliness;  her 
slender  white  hands;  the  way  she  held  herself;  the  way  she 
spoke.  Child  as  he  was  in  years  with  all  the  precocity  of  his 
mother's  race,  he  felt  himself  glow  from  head  to  foot  if  she  so 
much  as  touched  him  in  walking,  or  moving  round  the  little 
room;  for  she  delighted  in  coming  to  help  Mrs.  Grobo  with  the 
children;  would  take  charge  of  them  while  the  mother  was  out. 

"Marrying  an  aristocrat!  I'm  not  an  aristocrat,  Albert; 
you  should  see  me  blacking  the  grates.  *  Aristocrat '  and 
'Comrade'!  It  sounds  like  the  French  Revolution." 

"  It  will  be  worse  than  that  before  we've  done  with  them," 
bragged  the  boy  loudly.  "If  you  get  off,  it  will  only  be 
because " 

"Albert,  stop  it!  You  know  mama  said  you  weren't  to 
say  anything  to — to " 

"I  was  only  going  to  say  because  of  us,  silly!  For,  with 
a  father  like  hers — a  father  who's  a  bloody " 

"Stop  it,  stop  it!"  Lily  cried  out,  so  sharply  that  she 
started  herself  coughing  again;  and  Laura,  raising  her  in  her 
arms,  sent  the  boy  off  to  the  bedroom  for  some  syrup  that  the 
doctor  had  given  her.  There  was  no  further  talk  of  comrades 
or  revolutions.  For  a  moment  Laura's  curiosity  had  been 
aroused,  as  it  had  been  before;  but  what  really  mattered  was 
the  suffering  of  this  frail  child,  who  seemed  as  though  she 
must  be  literally  torn  in  two. 

Little  Charles  who  had  been  sitting  on  the  hearthrug, 
playing  with  the  cat,  picked  it  up,  and,  staggering  under  the 
weight,  laid  it  upon  Lily's  lap  to  comfort  her;  while  two  of  the 
other  children  left  their  romping  in  the  bedroom  and  came  and 
stood  opposite  to  her,  staring;  then,  when  it  was  over,  ran 
back  to  their  game. 

Panting  desperately,  Lily  resisted  Laura's  movement  to 
lay  her  down,  and  rested  against  her  breast.  "It's  com- 
fortable— you're  soft — you  smell  nice,"  she  declared,  in  gasps; 
and  closed  her  eyes. 


LAURA  CREICHTON  195 

After  a  while  her  face,  which  had  paled,  flushed  again. 
"I  suppose  he  lays  his  head  here,"  she  said;  and  then, 
with  a  plain  effort:  "Well,  I'm  glad.  A  man  must  have 
someone." 

It  had  become  too  dark  to  see.  Albert  marked  the  places 
in  his  books  with  spills  of  paper,  and,  moving  over  to  the 
fireplace,  sat  down  on  a  wooden  chair  opposite  to  his  sister  and 
Laura;  staring  at  them  through  the  gloaming. 

Presently  he  asked:  "Does  he "  And  then  added, 

"  Ah,  well !  I  suppose  he  does." 

"  Hush !  I  think  she's  dropping  off  to  sleep,"  whispered 
Laura,  and  then,  innocently  curious,  added  almost  under  her 
breath,  "  Does  he  what?" 

"  Rests  his  head  there  on  your  breast.  Oh,  well,  I  suppose 
he  does;  paws  you  about  like  the  other  men  with  their 
women." 

"My  husband!  Albert,  you've  no  business  to  talk  like 
that." 

"  I  shall  talk  as  I  like.  Aristocrat  or  no  aristocrat,  you're 
only  a  woman,"  retorted  the  boy  rudely,  filled  with  jealousy 
of  Vortonitch.  "The  next  thing'll  be  that  you'll  have  a 
baby." 

"What's  that?"  The  room  door  had  opened,  and  a  bent 
man's  figure  stood  there.  "What  the  devil's  that  about 
babies?  As  if  the  world  was  not  over-full,  sick  with  repletion, 
as  it  is!" 

"Stein!     How  did  you  get  in?"  asked  the  boy. 

"  I  met  your  mother  on  the  stairs ;  she's  gone  along  to  her 
room  with  that  precious  infant  of  hers." 

"  If  there  were  no  babies  you  wouldn't  be  here — I  shouldn't 
be  here,"  said  Albert,  with  his  air  of  cleverness. 

"  Not  much  loss  to  anyone,  that,"  said  Stein,  and,  moving 
over  to  the  mantelpiece,  propped  himself  against  the  side  of 
it,  staring  through  the  firelight  at  Laura,  his  hat  still  upon  his. 
head. 

"  Is  it  true  you're  going  to  have  a  baby?"  he  enquired. 

"No,"  answered  the  girl  quietly.  She  had  only  seen  this 
man  once  before,  and  her  face  flamed  at  die  insolence  of  his 
queetion;  but  she  had  learnt  that,  in  the  world  where  she  now 
lived,  people  said  pretty  much  what  they  liked,  and  so  re- 
strained herself. 

"Smother  it  at  birth,  if  you  have  it,"  cried  Stein,  with 
that  sort  of  shrill  fury  that  the  question  never  failed  to  arouse 
in  him.  "Why  should  we  feed  the  capitalist  with  the  fruit  of 


196  LAURA  CREICHTON 

our  bodies — their  factories,  their  mines,  their  armies,  navies, 
arsenals — tossing  them  our  children  like  the  keepers  at  the 
Zoological  Gardens  feeding  the  sea-lions  with  fish?  If  our 
class  refuses  to  breed,  they'll  be  done:  no  workers  left 
— obliged  to  work  themselves,  or  perish." 

"That  won't  keep  the  workers  alive  now;  and  perhaps 
they  want  children,  love  them,  want  to  live,"  answered  Laura. 

"Want  to  live!  Can  anyone  believe  for  a  moment  that 
they  want  to  live,  let  alone  breed;  that  they  would  be  led  into 
the  weakness  of  propagating  their  species,  if  it  were  not  that 
this  is  the  only  pleasure  that  the  aristocrats,  the  capitalists 
have  left  to  them?" 

"Do  you  know  who  she  is,  Stein?"  shrilled  Albert 
maliciously.  "  Worse  than  capitalist,  worse  than  aristocrat — 
the  daughter  of  a  General." 

"Is  that  so?"  Stein  leant  forward,  peering.  "Vor- 
tonitch's  wife,  aren't  you?" 

"Yes." 

"  That's  good !  By  God,  that's  good !  Vortonitch's  wife 
and  the  daughter  of  a  General!  If  you  do  have  a  brat,  what 
sort  of  a  mongrel  will  it  be?  Tell  me  that." 

Laura  made  a  movement  to  lay  the  sleeping  girl  upon  the 
sofa;  but  she  clung  to  her  in  her  sleep,  so  that  she  had  not 
the  heart  to  disturb  her. 

"  Go  and  ask  you  mother  to  come  here,  Charles,"  she  said, 
and  the  toddler,  busy  with  his  cat  again,  rose  to  his  feet  and, 
without  catching  her  meaning,  stood  staring. 

Stein  caught  at  his  shoulder.  "  No,  no,  we're  very  well  as 
we  are,  mon  enfant.  You  stay  here." 

"Albert,  tell  your  mother  I  want  her."  Laura  turned  to 
the  elder  boy,  whose  eyes  met  hers  defiantly;  then  dropped, 
as  he  turned  and  ran  from  the  room. 

"What's  Vortonitch  up  to  now,  may  I  ask?"  enquired 
Stein.  "The  great  Vortonitch!  Such  a  wonder,  as  he  made 
himself  out  to  be.  It  was  Triibner  who  gave  him  away.  Do 
you  know  Triibner?" 

"No." 

"  He  plies  a  boat  up  and  down,  to  and  fro  across  the  river. 
There's  no  inch  of  the  docks  that  he  does  not  know;  no 
single  member  of  the  river  police  or  customs  house  officials. 
He's  the  sleuth-hound  of  the  Thames,  is  Triibner.  It  was  he 
who  rowed " 

Stein  broke  off  as  Mrs.  Grobo  entered  the  room. 

"What  is  it,  Laura?"  she  said. 


LAURA  CREICHTON  197 

"  I  don't  like  the  way  Mr.  Stein  talks  to  me.  Lily  is  asleep 
and  I  can't  move." 

"Wait  a  minute,  and  I'll  light  the  gas."  With  her  baby 
upon  one  arm.  Mrs.  Grobo  manipulated  a  green  paper  shade  so 
that  the  light  was  shaded  from  Lily's  face;  she  then  turned  to 
the  man  leaning  against  the  mantelshelf,  slightly  humpbacked; 
his  immense  head,  with  its  great  domed  forehead,  arched  round 
with  the  heavy  shoulders;  the  lower  part  of  the  body  tapering 
off  into  spindly  legs:  a  creature  burdened  from  birth  by 
poverty,  deformity,  and  a  passionate  hatred  for  the  more 
fortunate  among  mankind. 

"You  must  keep  that  venom  of  yours  away  from  your 
tongue  while  you  are  here,  Stein." 

"I  said  nothing,"  muttered  the  man,  turning  away  his 
eyes,  fidgeting  like  an  awkward  schoolboy  beneath  her  steady 
gaze. 

"  You  said  too  much." 

"  I  said  nothing,  I  tell  you !  Nothing,  that  is,  that  we 
don't  all  know,  a  matter  of  common  talk." 

"In  any  case,  you  must  go  now.  I'm  about  to  bath  the 
children." 

"Oh,  well!"  He  moved  his  grotesque  shoulders  with  a 
sort  of  swagger,  the  piteous  swagger  of  deformity;  and  moved 
towards  the  door.  There  was  a  tap  and  sink  in  the  angle  of 
the  room  nearest  to  it,  and  Mrs.  Grobo,  her  child  still  on  her 
arm,  was  standing  by  it,  filling  a  zinc  tub  with  water.  As 
Stein  passed  her,  Laura  saw  that  he  hesitated,  cringing: 
"You  are  not  angry  with  me?"  he  said. 

"  I  don't  like  you  and  your  ways,  and  you  know  it.  If  you 
must  see  my  husband,  come  while  he's  at  home." 

"Ah,  so  you  don't  like  me,  don't  you?  Why  don't  you 
like  me?  You're  a  nice  fool  not  to  like  me:  I'd  do  anything 
for  you,  and  I'll  have  power,  mind  you.  I'll  have  power. 
Already  people  fear  me." 

"  I  don't  fear  you,  and  I  don't  want  you  here." 

The  humpback  gave  an  ugly  laugh: 

"Not  good  enough  for  you,  eh?  Neither  a  General,  or  a 
General's  daughter,  or  the  husband  of  a  General's  daughter, 
eh?"  There  was  a  spiteful  emphasis  on  the  last  words. 
"  If  you  don't  mind,  you  also  will  be  getting  yourself  suspect, 
Madame  Grobo." 

Laura,  on  the  sofa  at  the  further  side  of  the  room,  with 
Lily  still  asleep  against  her  shoulder,  could  only  catch  a  word 
here  and  there,  broken  by  the  sound  of  running  water.  But 


198  LAURA  CREICHTON 

at  this  Mrs.  Grobo  turned  off  the  tap,  raised  the  tub,  holding 
it  with  one  hand  and  outstreched  arm,  the  bottom  of  it 
resting  upon  her  hip,  and,  turning,  faced  Stein,  who  was  half 
out  of  the  door,  a  dark  bulk,  untouched  by  the  warm  light  of 
the  room — combined  fire  and  gas — out  of  it  all. 

"  I  have  no  reason  to  fear  what  anyone  may  say,"  she 
remarked  quietly,  "so  long  as  my  own  deeds  and  my  own 
sufferings  are  known  to  me." 

Laura  puzzled  over  this  scene,  was  impressed  by  it;  but 
for  the  time  being  the  significance  of  Stein's  remarks  was  lost 
in  her  personal  dislike  of  him — people  who  were  really 
"horrid"  didn't  mean  what  they  said — her  admiration  for 
Mrs.  Grobo.  Apart  from  this,  she  was  in  daily  contact  with 
so  much  that  was  strange  that  she  was  in  some  measure 
deadened  to  it.  All  this  talk  of  "  Comrades  "  and  "  Causes  " — 
what  did  it  mean?  She  had  some  idea  that  it  must  have  to 
do  with  Freemasonry,  or  something  of  that  sort;  and,  because 
she  had  suffered  all  her  life  from  incessant  questioning,  for- 
bore  to  question  her  husband,  or  anyone  else. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  long  winter  aftermath  of  an  unusually  hot  summer 
trailing  on  and  on,  the  more  plainly  bedraggled,  the  more 
hopeless  with  each  lengthening  day,  reached  its  climax  of 
damp,  cold,  slush  and  sleet  with  the  end  of  the  first  week  in 
February. 

All  this  while  Laura  had  seen  nothing  of,  heard  nothing 
from,  her  own  people.  To  say  that  she  did  not  think  of  them, 
by  now,  would  be  untrue;  for,  emerging  from  the  first 
engrossment  of  her  new  life,  she  thought  of  them  continually, 
and  with  a  longing  that,  especially  at  Christmas  and  the  New 
Year,  seemed  almost  unbearable. 

And  yet,  all  the  while,  her  thoughts  were  such  as  we  might 
imagine  the  dead  to  have  for  those  they  have  left  behind 
them.  In  her  literal  way  she  took  the  separation  as  being  as 
inevitable  as  though  they  were  divided  by  the  Styx :  her  father 
had  said  that  they  would  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  her, 
and  she  did  not  even  think  of  his  changing  his  mind.  In  this 
the  acquiescent  mood  of  her  girlhood  still  held  good:  lending 
her  that  sort  of  strength  which  comes  to  those  who  waste  no 
time  in  repining. 

And  indeed  she  had  no  time.  Whatever  Vortonitch's 
sources  of  income  might  have  been,  it  seemed  that  they  had 
failed  him  now:  his  stories  and  articles,  at  first  sent  out  by 
him,  and  then  by  Laura  alone,  came  back  as  regularly  as  they 
went,  with  that  heartbreaking  and  heartless  slip  which  tells  of 
the  editor's  regret  at  their  peculiar  unsuitability. 

Laura  had  laid  in  a  little  stock  of  clothes  after  her  mar- 
riage; Vortonitch  helped  her  with  her  shopping,  and  it  had 
been  great  fun.  At  that  time  it  had  seemed  that  she  was 
getting  everything  of  the  cheapest — this  very  frugality  part  of 
the  delight  of  it  all.  As  the  months  went  on,  however,  she 
looked  back  upon  her  own  extravagance  with  horror.  It  had 
been  summer  then,  and  in  the  summer  it  is  impossible  to  realise 
the  coldness  of  the  winter  days,  actually  or  spiritually;  be- 
sides, she  would,  of  course,  need  more  new  things  for  the 
winter. 

199 


200  LAURA  CREICHTON 

She  did  need  them,  but  she  did  not  get  them;  and  not  only 
her  own  clothing  but  Vortonitch's  was  miserably  inadequate. 
When  they  settled  in  Charterhouse  Square  he  had  given  away 
most  of  his  old  clothes,  above  all  his  winter  clothes,  feeling  it 
impossible  that  he  should  ever  go  back  to  them  again — stuffy, 
dust-laden;  and  one  realises  that  feeling  for  freshness,  for  an 
entirely  new  start  in  life  which  seeks  to  have  everything  in 
harmony.  Money  had  been  so  easily  come  by,  and  he  could 
not  nail  his  mfnd  down  to  the  thought  that  a  change  in  his 
way  of  life  would  entail  any  great  change  in  this  respect:  if 
he  had  made  money  by  being  an  enemy  to  society,  he  should 
certainly  make  it  more  easily  still  by  proving  himself  its  ally. 
It  would  not  be  necessary  to  do  anything  very  special ;  merely 
to  abstain;  for  with  all  his  brilliance,  his  modernity,  his 
cunning,  he  was  still  child  enough  to  cherish  that  old  belief 
in  the  reward  of  virtue. 

A  little  before  Christmas  they  had  moved  from  the  pleasant 
rooms  in  the  Square  to  a  top  floor  in  Little  Britain;  attic- 
like  rooms,  and  desperately  cold.  They  had  put  all  theii 
available  money  into  paying  a  deposit  for  furniture  upon  the 
hire-system,  because  furnished  rooms  were  so  expensive,  or  if 
not  expensive,  sordid:  "So  much  nicer  to  have  our  own 
things  about  us,"  said  Laura;  "and  we  shall  never  miss  ten 
shillings  a  week." 

But  they  did  miss  it.  Oddly  enough,  they  missed  it  a 
great  deal  more  paying  for  it  like  that  than  they  had  done 
when  it  was  lumped  into  rent.  Besides,  the  things  were  not 
their  own.  Laura  realised  that  in  her  constant  fear  of  any 
damage  to  the  rickety  stuff;  the  something  which  caught  at 
her  heart  when  she  saw  Paul  put  down  a  hot  cup  or  cigarette 
upon  the  highly-varnished  surface  of  a  table,  tilt  back  a 
chair;  while  the  sense  of  liability  filled  her  with  a  sort  of 
nervous  shame,  so  that  any  strange  step  coming  up  the  stairs 
translated  itself  into  that  of  "  the  furniture  man." 

Everything  creaked  and  moaned:  the  wood  shrank  so 
that  it  showed  white  lines  at  the  edge  of  the  dark  stain;  the 
cheap  carpet  in  the  sitting-room  rose  and  fell  with  the 
draughts;  while  the  chimney-cowls  ground  their  teeth  as 
they  twirled,  sucking  down  the  smoke  into  the  rooms  beneath 
them. 

The  water-tanks  were  in  a  small  room  next  to  their  bed- 
room, and  there  was  a  constant  drip-drip  of  water.  At  the  first 
frost  the  pipes  froze,  then  burst,  and  great  patches  of  damp 
appeared  upon  the  walls. 


LAURA  CREICHTON  201 

Little  by  little  Laura  found  the  laundry  expenses  too  much 
for  them;  and  for  the  truly  refined  this  is  the  first  real  pinch 
of  poverty.  She  began  to  wash  the  woollens  at  home,  hang 
them  on  lines  across  their  living-room  when  they  went  to  bed 
at  night.  But  she  could  not  wring  them  dry  enough — though 
she  wrung  until  there  were  bleeding  sores  between  her  first 
fingers  and  thumbs — and  they  dripped  in  grey  puddles  upon 
the  floor;  so  it  was  almost  impossible  to  sweep  the  room  in 
the  morning,  the  dust  caking  in  the  damp,  smearing  over  the 
remainder  of  the  floor,  rolling  up  into  repulsive  pellets. 

Then  she  tried  washing  other  things — pillow-slips,  towels, 
her  own  underlinen.  Mrs.  Grobo  told  her  the  clothes  must  be 
boiled  if  she  wanted  them  white,  and  she  bought  a  large  fish- 
kettle  in  which  to  boil  them;  but  in  her  ignorance  she  allowed 
it  to  rust,  and  this  marked  the  clothes. 

Having  mastered  this  business  of  boiling,  learnt  how  to 
keep  her  kettle  rustless,  she  was  obliged  to  give  it  up  because 
of  the  cost  of  gas,  the  meter  devouring  pennies  at  a  rate  which 
was  almost  beyond  belief.  There  had  been  gas  in  "  The  House," 
and  no  one  ever  thought  of  the  cost  of  it;  one  had  no  notion 
of  the  existence  of  such  a  thing  as  a  meter  in  those  days,  let 
alone  a  vision  of  it  as  something  alive,  thankless  and  eternally 
rapacious. 

A  fire,  now,  that  died  out  with  something  like  courtesy, 
feeling;  but  a  gas-ring — in  one  moment,  phut!  and  the  flame 
was  gone,  leaving  it  cold  and  black,  dully  unsympathetic, 
antagonistic  even. 

She  purchased  irons,  but  gave  up  ironing  her  clothes  on 
account  of  this  question  of  gas;  and  the  irons  rusted.  She 
bought  a  cookery-book,  but  most  of  the  otherwise  cheap 
dishes,  like  porridge  and  stewed  haricot  beans,  were  rendered 
expensive  by  the  amount  of  cooking  required.  Everything 
seemed  to  be  cut  out  in  some  way  or  another:  this  because  it 
needed  eggs;  that  because  it  needed  butter;  another  because 
there  must  be  fat  for  frying. 

In  the  household  work  it  was  the  same:  polish  cost  money: 
soap  was  an  item  to  be  considered.  It  seemed  to  Laura  as 
though  her  whole  outlook  was  becoming  blocked  by  things 
which  she  had  not  ever  thought  of  before;  stretching  like  an 
army  across  her  path,  swollen  to  a  ridiculous  size. 

One  day,  after  a  week  oi  continuous  fogs,  she  went  and 
had  her  hair  shampooed  at  one  of  the  big  stores.  Everything 
that  she  had  once  taken  as  a  matter  of  course,  the  large  and 
really  white  towels,  the  ample  supply  of  hot  water,  the  frothy 


202  LAURA  CREICHTON 

scented  wash,  the  sense  of  luxury  and  repose  were  all  alike  an 
exquisite  joy  to  her. 

That  evening  when  she  shook  her  hair  down  round  her 
shoulders,  brushed  it  so  that  every  separate  hair  sprang  to  life 
silky  and  glowing,  her  husband's  pleasure  as  he  buried  his  face 
in  it,  gathered  it  up  and  kissed  it,  filled  her  with  delight;  a 
sense  of  having  snatched  back  something  half-lost. 

"  It's  months  since  I  saw  it  like  this.  Why  don't  you 
always  keep  it  like  this?"  he  cried;  and  Laura  declared  that 
she  would  have  it  done  once  a  fortnight.  Why  not?  Only 
two  shillings! 

In  the  night,  however,  she  fell  to  calculating.  Two 
shillings  a  fortnight,  fifty-two  shillings — two  pounds  twelve — a 
year.  Awful,  awful! 

She  had  tried  washing  it  herself;  but  it  was  so  long  and 
thick  that  it  was  impossible  to  rinse  it  properly  in  the  one 
little  zinc  tub,  with  water  so  hard  that  the  soap  floated  upon 
the  top  of  it  in  curds;  impossible  to  dry  it  at  the  tiny  fireplace 
with  the  smoke  forever  drawing  down  the  chimney. 

As  she  felt  her  roughly-dried,  unironed  linen  against  her 
skin,  struggled  with  her  fair  hair,  lifeless  and  greasy,  it  seemed 
that  everything  in  life — beauty  and  love  included — had 
become  a  mere  matter  of  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence:  that 
she  would  never  again  see  anything  in  any  other  light,  apart 
from  the  cost  of  it. 

Vortonitch  missed  her  daintiness;  showed  it,  at  times,  by 
that  cold,  hard  stare  which  made  her  feel  as  though  they  were 
strangers;  by  thoughtless  questions,  such  as  why  she  never 
wore  cream-colour  or  white,  as  she  used  to  do. 

"That's  for  the  summer,"  she  answered — and  more  than 
once — with  that  quiet  patience,  that  maternal  patience  which 
had  become  a  sort  of  armour  to  her. 

"But  in  the  evenings,  when  we're  alone,"  he  had  persisted; 
and  then,  half-sulky,  "Once  you  women  marry,  you  don't 
seem  to  care  how  you  look!"  he  complained;  with  no  thought 
of  the  hopeless  expense  of  white,  under  the  circumstances, 
the  endless  cleaners'  and  laundry  bills  that  it  would  entail. 

On  the  whole,  however,  Vortonitch  scarcely  noticed  the 
deprivations;  felt  no  fear  for  the  future,  of  which  he  had 
never  in  his  whole  life  been  sure. 

He  never  forgot  Laura's  face  of  horror  and  dismay  one  day 
when  she  discovered  that  they  had  no  money  whatever  left 
to  them;  laughing  over  it  immoderately,  like  a  rather  rough 
schoolboy,  and  for  once  irritating  her  by  his  irresponsibility. 


LAURA  CREICHTON  203 

It  began  with  such  a  small  thing,  too.  Mrs.  Grobo  had 
said  that  the  Times  was  the  best  paper  for  advertisements — 
not  so  much  for  its  quantity  as  its  quality.  Vortonitch  had 
talked  of  trying  for  some  secretarial  post  while  the  fate  of  his 
stories  hung  in  the  balance,  and  when  he  came  home  one 
midday,  and  Laura  repeated  what  Mrs.  Grobo  had  told  her,  ha 
declared  that  he  would  go  out  and  buy  a  paper  at  once.  No 
other  time  would  do,  for  he  was  restless,  coming  back  to  their 
circumscribed  quarters  at  such  an  hour,  with  nothing  to  do. 
The  very  thought  of  an  empty  half-day  spent  there  bored  him, 
for  he  could  never  be  entirely  free  of  the  idea  of  home  as  a 
place  in  which  to  sleep,  or  entertain  one's  friends. 

He  rattled  what  seemed  like  money  in  his  pockets;  emptied 
them,  and  found  a  penny,  a  halfpenny,  a  bunch  of  keys,  a 
pencil  with  a  metal  sheath. 

"Have  you  any  money,  Laura?" 

"No.  I  had  a  little  over  from  last  week,  but  not  enough 
for  all  the  shopping;  no  meat  or  anything  for  to-morrow; 
and  there's  no  firewood.  If  you're  going  out,  will  you  see 
about  that,  Paul?  The  bundles  for  kindling." 

Vortonitch  was  standing  before  the  fireplace.  There  were 
several  little  boxes  and  tins  there;  a  couple  of  brass  mugs  he 
had  brought  from  Bulgaria,  and  a  blue-and-green  ginger-jar. 
Without  answering  Laura's  question,  he  turned  them  all  upside 
down  and  shook  them  in  turn;  but  there  was  nothing  there. 

"Looks  as  though  we  were  bankrupt  this  time,"  he  said 
and  laughed.  Glancing  up,  Laura  had  an  impression  of  white 
teeth,  bright  eyes,  a  look  of  liveness  and  vitality  such  as  she 
had  not  seen  for  weeks.  This,  indeed,  was  the  sort  of  fillip 
which  Vortonitch  needed:  to  be  just  poor  was  dull,  to  be 
penniless  exciting.  "  Not  even  the  price  of  a  Times!  I  must 
write  to  the  papers  about  that!  Are  you  sure  you  haven't 
any  coppers,  Laura?" 

"No,  not  one,"  answered  Laura.  She  was  standing 
close  to  the  window,  for  the  day  was  dark  with  fog,  one  of  her 
husband's  shirts  in  her  hands,  mending  the  collar.  "  Never 
mind  about  the  paper,  anyhow,  Paul;  it  doesn't  matter 
whether  you  write  to-day  or  to-morrow.  But  those  other 
things " 

"  Oh,  but  I  must  have  it,"  broke  in  Vortonitch.  "  I'll  go 
and  look  in  my  pockets.  A  penny-ha'penny!  To  think  of 
being  beaten  for  the  sake  of  a  penny-ha'penny!  Another 
grudge  against  the  Harmsworth  Press,  that." 

He  disappeared  into  the  bedroom,  and  she  heard  him  bang 


204  LAURA  CREICHTON 

the  cupboard  door,  drag  open  the  bottom  drawer  of  the  chest- 
of-drawers,  which  always  stuck  sideways,  and  in  which  that 
suit  he  had  worn  on  the  occasion  of  his  one  visit  to  her  parents 
reposed  in  solitary  splendour. 

A  minute  or  so  later  he  reappeared,  still  laughing.  "  One 
ha'penny,  Still  a  penny  short.  Are  you  sure  you've 
nothing?" 

"No — and,  Paul,  you  know  you  haven't  given  me  the 
money  for  this  week-end  yet.  If  you  haven't  any  you'll  have 
to  go  out  and  .  .  .  Oh!  I  forgot,  the  banks  will  be  shut. 
Saturday,  and  one  o'clock!"  She  gazed  at  him  in  dismay. 

"  Dear,  dear,  what  a  tragedy ! " 

"What  do  you  mean?"  She  dropped  her  hands,  holding 
her  work  in  front  of  her,  and  stared.  "Paul,  what  are  you 
laughing  at?" 

"  Well,  it  wouldn't  make  much  difference  if  they  were  open 
— every  bank  in  England." 

"But,  Paul,  I  must  have  some  money.  I  was  as  careful 
as  ever  I  could  be  with  last  week's,  but  it  wasn't  much " 

"Ah,  well,  it  was  a  precious  sight  more  than  I  have  now. 
Twopence — twopence ! " 

"  But  we  must  have  money,  old  thing ;  we  can't  go  over  the 
week-end  with  that.  There's  scarcely  anything  to  eat  in  the 
house.  Perhaps  if  you  wrote  a  cheque  and  post-dated  it " 

Vortonitch,  who  was  standing  in  front  of  the  tiny  fire, 
with  both  elbows  stuck  back  on  the  mantelshelf  behind  him, 
nodded  his  head  mockingly. 

"Yes,  yes,  that  would  be  a  good  idea;  a  cheque,  and  post- 
dated. I  wonder,  now,  where  you  got  that  idea.  Out  of  a 
novel,  eh?" 

His  wife  reddened,  realising  that  he  was  laughing  at  her; 
but  for  all  that  she  stuck  to  her  guns.  "I'm  sure  one  of  the 
shops  would  change  it  for  me,  where  they  know  me." 

"We'd  have  to  find  my  cheque-book  first.  Where  is 
it?"  He  made  a  feint  of  feeling  in  his  pockets,  patting  himself 
all  over;  desisting  with  a  gesture  of  despair.  "Teh,  tch! 
Laura,  where  have  we  put  that  cheque-book?  We  must  find 
that  first;  then  make  sure  of  my  signature;  then  track  down 
the  bank  with  my  money  in  it.  Dear,  dear,  what  a  world  it 
is!" 

She  turned  away,  folding  up  her  work,  the  tears  in  her  eyes, 
for  his  mockery  hurt  her.  "  I  don't  know  why  you  should 
laugh  at  me  in  that  way.  People  do  that  sort  of  thing;  I 
know  they  do." 


LAURA   CREICHTON  205 

"Laura!"  Vortoniteh  caught  at  her  shoulders,  pulled 
her  round,  laughing  in  her  face,  not  altogether  like  a  man — 
more  like  a  sort  of  faun  or  satyr.  "Look  at  me  now,  you 
little  silly,  you.  Have  I  ever  paid  anything  with  a  cheque 
since  we  were  married?" 

"N-o-o." 

"Given  you  a  cheque  to  pay  for  anything?" 

"  No."  She  stared  at  him  with  a  sort  of  bewilderment 
which  was  almost  stupidity;  she  could  deal  with  him  in  most 
moods,  but  like  this,  so  coolly  mocking,  he  was  beyond  her. 
Apart  from  that,  she  was  tired  with  her  Saturday's  cleaning, 
the  Saturday  crowds  in  the  little  shops,  where  she  had  been  so 
proud  over  the  disbursing  of  the  remainder  of  last  week's 
money. 

"Have  I  ever  spoken  to  you  of  my  banking  account?" 

"No,  but,  Paul- 

"I've  given  you  less  and  less,  eh?" 

"  I've  managed  all  right."  She  lifted  her  head  with  a 
movement  of  pride;  for  she  had  managed,  and  never  com- 
plained. 

"Can  you  imagine  why?" 

"  I  thought  your  income " 

"My  dear  child,  but  I  have  no  income." 

"I  don't  know — I — I'm  awfully  stupid  about  money;  but 
there's  .  .  .  Oh,  but  you  must  have  some  money:  capital,  or 
something.  Of  course,  I  know  we've  got  to  be  awfully  careful, 
but  still  ...  I  have  been  careful,  Paul;  I  have." 

"All  the  same,  there's  a  point  when  it's  no  use  being 
careful  any  longer;  when  there's  nothing  whatever  to  be 
careful  of." 

"But  how  do  you  mean — nothing?" 

"  Well,  comparatively  speaking."  He  rattled  the  coppers 
in  his  hand.  "  Twopence,  to  be  exact." 

"Do  you  mean  in  the  world?" 

"  In  our  world,  best  beloved." 

Her  face,  already  white,  stiffened,  her  eyes  were  almost 
black  with  incredulous  horror. 

"You  mean  that  we  have  no  money  whatever?  That  we 
shall  starve?" 

He  burst  out  laughing.  "Not  us!  No,  no,  my  dear; 
I'm  not  the  sort  that  starves." 

"Perhaps  if  you  went  round  to  some  of  the  newspaper 
offices  where  they  know  you " 

"  Saturday,  and  after  one  o'clock :  they're  all  closed." 


206  LAURA  CREICHTON 

He  moved  over  to  her,  lifted  her  chin  between  his  finger 
and  thumb,  and  kissed  her  on  the  lips;  then  patted  her  cheek. 

"  Don't  look  so  tragic;  it's  one  of  the  fortunes  of  war,  the 
fortunes  of  life." 

He  strolled  across  the  room  and  picked  up  his  hat,  wiped 
it  round  with  his  sleeve,  whistling,  and  slipped  into  his  over- 
coat— old  and  far  thinner  than  it  should  have  been — with  a 
gay,  swaggering  movement;  gallant  enough  in  its  way,  which 
Laura,  too  stunned  to  realise  at  the  time,  remembered  later, 
when  she  heard  people  continually  complaining  of  "the 
difficulties  of  living  upon  a  small  fixed  income";  while  from 
that  time  onward  there  was  a  sort  of  cynicism  in  her  attitude 
towards  his  being  "hard  up."  One  had  enough  money  to 
keep  one  alive  for  the  next  few  days,  or  one  had  not;  that 
was  all  that  mattered. 

Vortonitch  was  away  for  three  hours.  She  never  forgot 
that  three  hours.  They  had  not  over-much  coal  left,  and  she 
was  so  sparing  with  it  that  the  fire  went  out  and  could  not  be 
re-lighted  for  lack  of  wood.  As  the  room  grew  dark  and 
bitterly  cold  it  seemed  to  her  that  all  her  contrivances  and 
struggles  had  been  life,  with  a  real  zest  about  it,  but  this  was 
death.  She  found  that  she  could  not  think  clearly,  stupefied 
with  the  cold,  with  fatigue,  with  the  want  of  food;  for  they 
had  had  nothing  more  than  coffee  and  rolls  for  breakfast,  to 
which — though  it  suited  Vortonitch — she  found  difficulty  in 
becoming  accustomed,  used  to  the  ample  English  breakfast  of 
porridge,  bacon  and  eggs. 

Later  on,  when  she  grew  more  used  to  the  ups  and  downs 
of  life,  she  would  have  been  practical  enough  to  make  herself 
a  cup  of  tea,  realising  the  necessity  of  keeping  herself  going; 
along  with  the  fact  that  this  was  by  no  means  the  end  of 
everything.  But  now  she  did  not  even  think  of  it,  overcome 
by  a  sense  of  finality. 

No  money  at  all — no  money  at  all!  Twopence — worse 
than  nothing! 

Even  a  month  later — less — her  mind  would  have  run  over 
all  her  small  possessions,  found  something  that  might  be 
turned  into  money  to  tide  them  over  the  crisis;  but  as  yet  she 
had  not  arrived  at  this,  lacked  all  the  resources  necessary  for 
meeting  such  an  emergency. 

When  Vortonitch  did  return  he  found  her  sitting  in  the 
dark  room,  a  black  silhouette  against  the  window,  faintly 
lighted  by  the  lamps  in  the  street  below,  and  Called  gaily  for 
her  to  light  the  gas. 


LAURA  CREICHTON  207 

"  My  arms  are  BO  full,  I've  not  got  a  hand  to  spare." 

As  she  obeyed  him,  moving  stiffly,  cramped  with  cold  and 
that  sort  of  deadness  which  had  invaded  both  her  physical 
and  mental  person,  she  saw  that  he  was  laden  with  parcels, 
the  whole  topped  by  a  huge  bunch  of  yellow  chrysanthemums. 

The  only  thing  he  had  forgotten  was  the  wood,  and  he  ran 
downstairs  and  out  into  the  street  for  this.  It  reminded 
Laura  of  that  day  when  she  left  home  and  went  to  him  in  his 
rooms ;  only  then  it  was  she  who  had  done  the  shopping,  and  she 
had  been  years  younger — years  and  years  and  years  younger. 

Vortonitch  was  very  kind  to  her,  gay  and  fond;  it  was  he 
who  re-lit  the  fire,  made  tlae  tea,  fried  sausages,  and  cleared 
away  afterwards;  while  it  was  not  until  she  had  eaten  and 
drunk  that  Laura  emerged  from  her  stupor  sufficiently  to  ask 
him  how  he  had  managed  to  find  the  money  to  pay  for  his 
purchases. 

"  Three  pounds,"  he  answered,  laughing.  "  Three  pounds ! 
Didn't  I  tell  you  we  wouldn't  starve?" 

For  all  that,  he  would  not  say  where  he  had  got  it.  The 
sense  of  his  wife's  real  dependence  upon  him,  the  conjuror-like 
flourish  of  sudden  and  comparative  wealth  amused  him:  it 
would  have  been  a  stupid  come-down  to  acknowledge  that  it 
was  merely  borrowed  from  Mrs.  Grobo,  in  whose  rooms  he 
had  spent  the  afternoon,  telling  tales  to  Lily,  who  lay  wrapped 
in  a  blanket  upon  his  knee. 

It  was  six  o'clock  by  the  time  they  finished  their  meal; 
but  for  all  that  he  insisted  upon  going  out  to  supper  at  Le 
Cygne  d'Or — having  long  forgotten  his  grudge  against  it — 
soon  after  nine.  "We  shall  be  shut  up  here  all  to-morrow, 
Sunday,"  he  said;  "besides,  it  will  never  do  to  eat  up  all 
our  store." 

"I  don't  want  anything  more  to  eat,  and  it's  so  comfy 
here,"  pleaded  Laura;  but  he  would  not  listen  to  her,  telling 
her  to  be  off  and  get  ready,  or  he'd  have  her  old  before  her 
time.  "  Then  they'll  all  declare  I  ill-treat  you,"  he  said. 

As  she  was  changing  her  dress  and  shoes,  he  called  out  to 
her  to  put  on  a  little  cap  of  dark  fur  which  she  had  made  for 
herself. 

"  I  love  you  in  that  cap,  with  your  fair  hair,"  he  said;  and 
then,  while  she  finished  dressing,  moved  about  the  adjoining 
room,  whistling,  humming  to  himself,  so  gaily  that  it  seemed 
impossible  that  nothing  more  than  something  like  two  pounds 
and  a  very  few  shillings,  to  judge  by  his  purchases,  stood 
between  them  and  the  rest  of  the  world. 


208  LAURA  CREICHTON 

She  dreaded  speaking  of  it,  but  she  braced  herself  to  the 
effort  as  she  stood  in  the  sitting-room,  putting  on  her  gloves. 

"Only  a  cup  of  coffee,  Paul,  just  for  the  sake  of  the  walk. 
We  must  be  careful.  That  money  won't  last  for  ever." 

"Don't  talk  to  me  of  money;  I  hate  it!  Come  along  now, 
and  let's  enjoy  ourselves,  for  this  once,  anyhow.  What's  the 
good  of  worrying  about  money — the  root  of  all  evil?" 

"And  do  you  think  I  don't  worry — that  I  can  help 
worrying?"  A  sudden  wave  of  anger  swept  over  her  like  a 
hot  wind;  to  her  own  amazement  she  was  shaking  from 
head  to  foot  as  she  turned  upon  Vortonitch,  tearing  off  her 
gloves,  rolling  them  into  a  ball.  What  on  earth  was  he 
standing  there  for,  grinning  like  that?  Who  was  he?  What 
was  he? — A  stranger,  a  mountebank,  unable  to  take  anything 
seriously. 

"  You  tell  me  that  we've  no  money  in  the  world,  that  we're 
penniless.  You  go  out  and  leave  me  thinking  that — believing 
it,  so  that  I  daren't  even  keep  the  fire  burning.  Then  you 
come  back  like  this — like  this! — talking  of  going  out  to 
supper!  You  must  be  mad — mad — mad;  or  a  liar,  a  fool!" 

"Laura!"  He  laid  one  hand  on  her  arm,  but  she  turned 
away  from  him,  pulling  off  her  cap  and  throwing  it  down  on 
the  table. 

"Laura!" 

"  No,  I  won't  go  out  with  you,  that's  all.  You  may  go  by 
yourself,  if  you're  mad  enough  to  go  spending  money  like 
that." 

"Laura!"  For  the  third  time  he  repeated  her  name, 
with  an  air  of  horrified  amazement.  But  it  was  exaggerated: 
there  was  laughter  at  the  back  of  it,  and  she  realised  it.  What 
was  one  to  do?  What  could  one  do  with  a  man  like  this?  It 
was  like  trying  to  hold  water  in  your  hands.  At  this  thought 
her  anger  flickered  as  suddenly  as  it  had  arisen;  and  with  a 
sense  of  chill,  helplessness,  beaten  and  bewildered,  she  turned 
away;  dropped  into  a  chair,  folded  her  arms  along  the  top 
rail  and  laid  her  head  upon  them,  shaken  with  those  despair- 
ing sobs  which  overcome  a  child  in  moments  of  complete 
desolation. 

"Laura  darling " 

"  No,  no ! "  Vortonitch  had  dropped  to  his  knees  at  her 
side,  put  an  arm  about  her;  but  she  drew  away  from  him  with 
a  sense  of  agony,  for  it  was  dreadful  to  feel  like  that — like 
drawing  away,  when  he  was  all  that  she  had  in  the  world. 

She  raised  her  tear-stained  face  for  a  moment.    "  What  am 


LAURA  CREICHTON  209 

I  to  do?  Jh,  Paul,  how  can  I  do  anything,  if  you  treat  me 
like  a  child,  behave  like  a  child!"  she  cried. 

"But,  dear,  we  are  children,  you  and  I — that's  what  we 
want  to  be,  to  hold  to."  She  had  covered  her  face  again,  but 
he  pushed  his  hand  in  between  her  cheek  and  her  arm,  raised 
it,  genuinely  touched  and  repentant. 

"  Darling,  I  can't  take  money  so  seriously,  because  I  never 
have  done  so.  I  know  I'm  a  brute,  an  idiot;  but  I'm  so  used 
to  the  ups  and  downs  of  life,  I  never  thought " 

"  You  never  do  think." 

"I  know,  I  know.  I'm  an  ass!"  He  drew  her  head 
down  against  his  shoulder.  "Laura,  you  mustn't  cry;  you 
mustn't!  Or,  if  you  do,  you  must  cry  there." 

"To  frighten  me  like  that!  To  frighten  me  like  that,  and 
then  to  talk  of  going  to  a  restaurant,  spending  money  as  though 
nothing  mattered!"  For  absolutely  the  first  time  in  her  life 
she  realised  the  luxury  of  a  grievance,  of  giving  way,  of  being 
petted  back  to  reason;  for  of  course  she  had  been  a  stupid  to 
get  herself  into  such  a  state  over  a  trifle. 

"Well,  nothing  does  matter,  nothing  excepting  that  you 
should  forgive  me.  We'll  never  go  to  a  restaurant  again — 
never,  never!"  He  had  got  her  hands  away  from  her  face 
now,  and  they  were  looking  into  each  other's  eyes.  His  own 
twinkled.  Quite  suddenly  they  both  laughed,  and  drawing 
her  towards  him,  he  kissed  her  again  and  again;  laid  his 
cheek  to  hers  and  rubbed  it  up  and  down  like  an  ingratiating 
animal. 

"Perhaps  this  once,  eh,  carissima  mia?  A  single  cup  of 
coffee  apiece,  and  a  walk  through  the  moonlight.  The  fog's 
gone  and  it's  as  clear  as  day.  This  once,  and  never  again." 

He  held  her  away  from  him  for  a  moment,  looking  into 
her  eyes;  then  she  pulled  herself  free  and  picked  up  her  cap; 
a  sigh  at  the  back  of  her  laugh.  She  loved  him  with  her  whole 
heart  and  soul,  and  yet  she  could  do  nothing  with  him — 
shining,  slipping  through  her  fingers:  "sparkling — darkling" 
— like  water.  Yes,  that  was  it:  like  water. 

At  school  she  had  struggled  vainly  over  the  memorising 
of  "The  Falls  of  Lodore."  She  thought  that  she  had  for- 
gotten it  all,  but  it  came  back  to  her  now  and  again,  and 
from  this  time  onward  always  in  connection  with  her  husband: 

"Here  it  comes  sparkling, 
And  there  it  lies  darkling." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

FOR  a  whole  week  it  had  snowed,  intermittently,  ceasing 
long  enough  for  the  streets  and  roofs  of  the  houses  to  become 
streaked  and  grey,  sodden  with  slush  and  dirty  water:  in 
between  the  falls  of  snow  the  air  was  thick  with  a  yellow, 
greasy  fog.  Everything  was  dirty  to  the  touch;  the  faces 
in  the  streets  looked  bilious,  yellow  and  blue  with  cold;  the 
parks  were  a  sordid  patchwork  of  snow  and  mud. 

The  filth  round  Smithfield  Market  was  indescribable — 
ankle-deep;  the  butchers  and  carters,  brutalised  by  the  cold 
and  by  the  drink  they  took  in  their  endeavour  to  keep  it  out 
of  them,  red  and  purple  as  the  meat. 

Vortonitch  had  been  in  bed  for  five  days  with  a  feverish 
cold.  At  the  slightest  rise  of  temperature  he  became  slightly 
delirious,  as  some  people  do,  and  for  twenty-four  hours  he 
had  talked  without  ceasing;  then,  overcome  by  exhaustion, 
dropped  from  one  doze  into  another. 

Laura  had  been  to  the  market  to  buy  scraps  of  beef  for 
soup,  realising  that  now  the  fever  had  left  him  what  he  needed 
most  was  food  and  warmth. 

There  was  a  small  fire  in  the  bedroom,  for  he  was  so  restless 
that  every  now  and  then  he  liked  to  drag  himself  from  his  bed 
and  sit  by  it,  with  his  overcoat  and  blanket  round  his  shoulders. 

It  was  difficult  to  tell  when  he  was  asleep  and  when  merely 
brooding,  with  his  head  sunk  upon  his  breast;  only  when  he 
raised  his  eyes,  seldom  lifting  his  chin,  his  wife  realised  not 
only  that  he  was  awake  but  that  he  was  not  himself  at  all: 
that  someone  whom  she  had  never  known,  even  in  moments  of 
fiercest  impatience,  was  looking  out  at  her  from  those 
shining  eyes,  beneath  the  deep  cavern  of  the  brow,  with  a 
contemptuous  defiance  and  intolerance. 

Sometimes  he  sighed,  sometimes  he  coughed:  the  cough 
was  not  artificial  any  more  than  the  sigh;  it  shook  him  from 
head  to  foot;  but  for  all  that,  it  was  exaggerated.  He  was. 
indeed,  far  less  miserable  than  he  seemed,  less  distressed  by 
his  own  illness  than  was  his  wife  by  her  anxiety  and  sym- 
pathy. It  helped  him,  indeed;  his  very  suffering,  perfectly 

210 


LAURA  CREICHTON  211 

real  as  it  was — for  no  one  can  have  a  high  temperature  and 
tearing  cough  without  suffering — helped  him.  There  had 
even  been  a  sort  of  pleasure  in  letting  himself  float  away  upon 
a  river  of  delirium,  for  the  simple  reason  that  it  flowed  in  the 
direction  in  which  he  intended  it  to  flow. 

It  was  all  like  that  mood  of  a  child  whom  its  nurse 
describes  as  "  working  itself  up." 

The  first  weeks  of  his  marriage  had  been  filled  with  ecstasy, 
an  extravagant  and  whole-souled  adoration  of  Laura  in  which 
he  had  let  everything  else  go. 

This  was  followed  by  a  period  that  tingled  with  difficulties, 
during  which  time  he  still  posed  as  the  adoring  husband;  with 
rosy  visions  of  himself  as  the  adoring  father;  discounting 
Stein,  taking  Grobo  for  his  model;  while  Grobo  himself, 
realising  a  phase  wherein  he  was  at  least  out  of  mischief, 
showed  a  strange  patience  with  him;  for  he  was  safer,  abjuring 
Nihilism  with  a  sort  of  holy  horror  than  he  might  have  been 
"  running  away  with  'imself ,"  as  Grobo  put  it. 

Suddenly,  however,  the  role  of  exemplary  husband  began 
to  pall  upon  Vortonitch;  he  fancied  himself  wasted,  slighted, 
remembering  that  scene  at  Le  Cygne  d'Or.  "  What's  to  come 
out  of  it  all?  What's  the  good  of  it  all?"  he  asked  himself. 

He  relinquished  his  slight  efforts  as  breadwinner  for  the 
same  reason,  for  the  mare  maintenance  of  existence  had  never 
been  enough  for  him:  to  work  to  live,  to  live  to  work — could 
anything  be  drearier? 

He  had  declared  that  he  would  have  nothing  more  to  do 
with  Nihilism,  anarchy  in  any  shape  or  form,  and  he  would 
not  go  back  upon  his  word,  not  from  vanity,  but  from  prin- 
ciple, at  any  rate  until  he  was  forced. 

Until  he  was  "  forced."  There  you  had  it.  If  the  circum- 
stances, the  pressure  of  poverty,  the  responsibility  of  a  young 
wife,  sickness,  despair,  were  too  strong  for  him,  what  was  he 
to  do?  If,  above  all,  the  plutocrats  drove  him.  There  was 
an  added  reason  for  reverting  to  his  original  course,  renewing 
his  attack  upon  the  powers  that  be,  in  the  fact  that  his  wife's 
father,  General  Sir  Harry  Creichton,  went  on  his  way,  tabbed 
and  bemedalled,  unchallenged,  with  a  daughter  and  son-in- 
law  at  the  point  of  starvation. 

As  a  Communist  agitator  will  cherish  every  case  of  in- 
justice and  hardship  which  he  encounters  for  the  exploitation 
of  his  cause,  Paul  Vortonitch  panoplied  himself  in  his  miseries. 

The  day  he  realised  that  Laura's  little  gold  watch  was  gone 
from  her  wrist  brought  him  that  sense  of  relief  which  came  to 


212  LAURA  CREICHTON 

Sir  Roland  on  his  first  sight  of  the  Dark  Tower,  "  gladness 
that  some  end  should  be." 

As  it  happened,  Grobo  dropped  in  to  see  him  between  five 
and  six  that  same  day,  one  of  those  evenings  early  in  the  new 
year  when  the  lengthening  daylight  no  more  than  prolongs 
the  hours  of  cold  and  misery,  with  a  barren  and  altogether 
premature  pretence  of  spring. 

Apparently  Vortonitch  was  but  just  out  of  bed,  had  risen 
in  some  sudden  access  of  excitement,  for  he  was  standing 
aimlessly  in  the  middle  of  the  disordered  room,  his  cheeks 
flushed,  an  evening  paper  crumpled  up  in  his  hand. 

As  Grobo  entered,  he  smoothed  it  out  upon  the  bed,  and 
without  any  greeting,  pointed  with  a  shaking  finger  at  the 
principal  headlines  running  the  whole  width  of  the  front 
page. 

"Chatham!     You  have  started  again,  then?" 

Grobo  shrugged  his  shoulders:  "We  'ave  never  stopped; 
they  'ave  tried  to  keep  things  out  of  the  papers,  that  is  all. 
But  we  move  all  the  time,  like  one  of  those  creatures  with  so 
many  legs — what  is  it  you  call  them?" 

"Then  why  is  this  'displayed'?"  Vortonitch  indicated 
the  lettering.  "There's  no  attempt  to  keep  that  quiet. 
Damn  it  all!  what's  your  idea  now?  What  are  you  up  to 
now,  eh?" 

"It  was  too  big.  'Fifty  thousand  pounds'  worth  of 
damage  estimated:  over  a  'undred  injured;  many  lives  lost.' 
There's  no  'iding  a  thing  like  that,"  answered  Grobo,  with  the 
ridiculous  pouting  expression  of  a  beauty  who  protests  that 
she  has  been  unable  to  keep  her  photograph  out  of  the  papers. 
'"Let  me  tell  you  this,  my  little  dear:  the  only  wonder  is 
lhat  we  'ave  been  able  to  'ide  so  much  and  for  so  long.  We 
could  not  'ave  done  it,  if  they  'ad  not  'elped  us,  scared  to 
death  of  publicity,  of  a  whole  peoples  asking,  'Why  are  we 
not  protected?  For  what  reason  we  pay  rates  and  taxes,  eh, 
what?'  For  since  the  end  of  the  second  week  in  July  there 
'as  been  no  two  weeks  without  something  'appening.  One  by 
one  we  'ave  drawn  out  teeth,  chopped  off  fingers,  toes,  noses, 
ears  from  this  'ere  England — drugged  with  fear  and  vanity — 
and  the  body  itself  scarcely  so  much  as  realised  it.  Great! 
ah,  great,  I  tell  you!  But  now,  this  lifeless,  armless  trunk 
which  calls  'ersell  '  the  country  ' — so  proudly — '  the  country ' 
— like  that — 'ow  can  she  any  more  'ide  'erself,  'er  donefomess, 
'er  dangers?  As  for  'er  keepers,  they  are  worn  out  with  their 
'idings  away  of  their  idol;  it  is  beyond  them  now,  as  it  is 


LAURA  CREICHTON  213 

beyond   us   to   stop    the   destruction   which    we — which   7 — T 
myself — 'ave  started  'ere  in  England. 

"  Nothing  can  stop  it,  I  tell  you  that,  my  dear — I,  Grobo 
— nothings  on  earth."  With  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  the 
skirts  of  his  voluminous  frock-coat  thrown  back  over  his  arms, 
he  began  to  move  to  and  fro  with  short,  quick  steps  in  the 
narrow  space  between  door  and  window,  across  the  foot  of  the 
bed.  "An'  as  to  'eaven — what  'ave  we  to  do  with  'eaven?" 
he  added,  and  puffed  out  his  lips. 

Vortonitch  moved  his  shoulders,  half -weary,  half-mocking. 
"What  good  does  it  do  them,  when  all's  said  and  done?" 
The  moment  the  words  were  out  of  his  mouth,  he  realised  the 
subconscious  change  of  opinion  which  they  revealed;  the 
effect  of  his  wife's  humble  and  whole-souled  admiration  for 
his  supposed  championship  of  the  under-dog. 

Grobo  stared.  '"Oo?"  Clever  as  he  was,  he  was  unable 
to  grasp  so  ridiculous  an  idea  as  that  which  Laura  had 
associated  with  her  husband. 

"  Oh,  your  precious  working-man,  I  suppose,"  answered 
Vortonitch,  shamefacedly. 

"Teh,  tch!  From  you,  my  dear!  That  scorpion,  the 
working-man,  stinging  'imself  to  death  with  'is  strikes!  What 
a  mentality,  that  there,  to  think  of  moving  on  by  standing 
still!  Not  to  say  that  'e  'as  not  'elped  us  in  the  past.  Yes, 
yes;  we  are  not  ungrateful  to  'im.  When  we  of  the  com- 
mune are  established,  we  will  drop  our  tears  upon  'im  and  'is 
liberties,  slime  'im  over  with  tears,  before  we  crush  'im  to 
death,  eh,  eh,  my  dear?  As  an  independent  member  of 
society,  that  is  to  say,  for  we  'ave  our  uses  for  'im,  trust  us 
for  that.  Meanwhile,  my  little  friend,  this  remains,  and  this 
only,  to  kill  and  kill  and  kill." 

"Even  the  working-man?" 

"Pouf!  'E  is  our  friend,  but  there  is  too  many  of  'im 
for  the  work  we  'ave  to  do:  there  can  be  no  greater  imped i 
ment  than  an  over-multitude  of  friends.  The  unintelligent, 
the  'ewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of  water — all  very  well;  but 
the  intelligent,  the  firebrands!  No,  no,  we  'ave  'ad  enough 
o'  them.  It  is  best  for  all  that  they  are  out  of  the  way.  A 
few  picked  men,  men  of  education,  men  of  our  own  way  of 
thinking,  not  merely  '  sympatica,'  but  of  ourselves — that  is  all 
that  is  needed." 

Vortonitch  did  not  speak.  He  had  wrapped  a  great-coat 
round  himself  and  dropped  into  a  chair,  where  he  now  leant 
back,  haggard  and  unshaven,  his  bare  feet  outstretched  to  the 


214  LAURA  CREICHTON 

handful  of  fire,  his  shoulders  drawn  up  to  his  ears,  his  chin  on 
his  breast,  his  hands  deep  in  his  coat-pockets;  staring  in  front 
of  him. 

After  a  moment  or  so,  Grobo,  realising  his  silence,  ceased 
his  perambulations  and  sat  down  upright  upon  a  high  chair; 
his  little  fat  feet,  in  their  buttoned  boots  with  imitation  spats 
of  brown  leather,  tucked  back  under  it;  his  fat,  pinkish  hands 
resting  upon  his  thighs,  tight  to  bursting-point  in  their  black 
and  grey  striped  trousers,  his  red  under-lip,  broad  as  it  was 
long,  protruding. 

For  a  while  he  was  silent,  glancing  at  his  companion  with 
a  curious  and  appraising  air;  then  he  began  again,  more 
calmly: 

"  It  is  like  a  stone  that  a  man  'as  started  to  roll  down-'ill — 
neither  'e  nor  anyone  else  can  stop  it,"  he  went  on.  "  We 
'ave  provided  ourselves  with  maps  of  Europe,  marked  with 
crosses;  every  military  establishment,  every  Government  fac- 
tory, every  arsenal,  every  barrack  town,  every  shipbuilding- 
yard,  every  victualling  or  clothing  department:  each  one  is 
numbered.  As  it  is  thrown  out  of  gear,  it  is  pencilled  round 
with  a  circle,  which  marks  not  merely  a  loss  to  the  Government, 
see  you,  but  a  centre  of  discontent,  uneasiness,  fear;  where 
many  men  are  out  of  work,  where  there  are  some  in  the 
'ospital,  some  under  the  earth — not  a  few  neither;  and  for 
what?  For  what  they  know  not,  nor  by  what  agency.  It  is 
this  not  knowing  that  is  tinder  to  our  fire.  But  there  is  more 
to  do  yet.  Yes,  my  friend,  I  will  not  disguise  it  from  you. 
Something  to  clinch  it  all,  to  set  the  keystone  to  our  revolu- 
tion. Yes,  yes;  that  is  that:  the  keystone." 

The  little  man  put  up  one  hand  and  pulled  at  his  underlip, 
between  his  finger  and  thumb:  there  was  already  a  very  fair 
number  of  circles  upon  the  map  of  England  for  which  he 
himself  was  responsible,  and  every  country  in  Europe  had  been 
supplied  with  the  same  work  of  art.  But  for  all  that,  he  was 
in  difficulties.  The  affair  at  Chatham,  planned  by  himself, 
had  been  carried  out  by  Stein;  and  well  enough,  too.  But 
Stein's  overwhelming  vanity  and  jealousy,  the  fact  that  he 
had  his  own  private  bee  in  his  bonnet,  made  him  a  dangerous 
man  to  work  with.  The  foreign  element  in  England  had, 
ever  since  the  war,  been  more  or  less  split  into  two  parties: 
those  aliens  whose  one  wish  was  to  re-establish  themselves  in 
a  state  of  commercial  prosperity,  and  the  criminal  classes. 
A  week  earlier,  Harbin  had  committed  suicide.  No  loss, 
cither,  for  those  English  .  .  .  ach!  the  trial  they  were!  You 


LAURA  CREICHTON  21S 

spurred  them  on  to  one  more  or  less  creditable  effort,  which 
they  carried  out  with  an  apparently  whole-souled  recklessness, 
and  then  they  drooped — the  ones  that  were  worth  anything; 
the  ones  whom  you  could  trust — overcome  by  what  they 
called  their  "conscience,"  an  appendage  which  Grobo  re- 
garded as  purely  English,  one  of  the  greatest  drawbacks  to  an 
otherwise  fine  race.  For  he  realised  this  absurdity  as  a  sort 
of  national  wen:  manifest  in  every  walk  of  life,  in  women  as 
well  as  men.  Only  look  at  the  English  prostitute,  how  she 
went  to  pieces,  soaking  in  drink  to  drown  her  "  conscience." 
No  sense  of  pride  in  her  profession.  There,  alone,  was  an 
otherwise  useful  class  lost  to  conspiracy;  no  good  trying  to 
use  Englishwomen  of  this  sort  in  the  way  in  which  one  might, 
and  did,  use  Frenchwomen. 

Between  one  thing  and  another  their  community  was 
running  short  of  men,  men  of  the  stamp  they  wanted;  that 
was  the  fact  of  the  matter.  And  here  was  Vortonitch,  with 
courage,  dash,  initiative,  tamed  to  the  hand  by  his  long 
spell  of  domesticity,  or  so  it  seemed  to  Grobo:  using  his 
own  home-life  and  affections  as  a  feather-bed  upon  which 
to  rest,  contrasting  himself  with  this  other  man,  burying 
his  head,  suffocating  himself  with  it,  as  one  might  do  with 
a  pillow. 

"  Discontent  and  unemployment  is  swelling  the  fruit  to 
our  'and.  It  is  now  that  we  must  move.  Now,  when  the 
winter  stores  are  exhausted,  before  the  chance  of  an  'arvest, 
revolution  will  run  through  England  like  the  foxes  through 
the  corn  of  the  Philistines." 

Vortonitch  raised  one  shoulder  slightly  higher  than  the 
other;  there  was  a  sneer  round  his  lips,  but  he  said  nothing; 
and  with  a  sudden  flick  Grobo  launched  that  dart  which  he 
had  been  holding  in  reserve. 

"Next  week  we  will  get  on  with  Woolwich." 

It  took.  "Woolwich  is  mine!  I'll  trouble  you  to  keep 
your  hands  off  Woolwich!"  snarled  Vortonitch,  without  so 
much  as  a  glance,  twisting  his  lips  down  and  round  the  words. 

"  You  gave  it  up,  and  someone  else  'as  got  it." 

"Who  the  hell  .  .  ."  He  turned  at  this,  his  hands 
gripping  either  side  of  the  chair;  staring  angrily.  "It  is 
mine,  I  tell  you!  Mine!" 

"  But  my  dear  Paul " — Grobo  made  a  deprecating  move- 
ment with  both  hands  outspread — "  you  come  to  me  and 
you  says:  'Grobo,  you  bloody  scoundrel ' — ah,  but,  my  friend, 
you  'ave  sa-a-ed  it — '  I  am  no  more  a  revolutionist,  no  more. 


216  LAURA  CREICHTON 

I  'ave  a  wife,  and  I  love  'er;  I  am  goin'  to  be  a  good  little 
boy,  for  evermore,  amen.'  A  citizen,  a  leetle  tame,  flat-footed 
citizen!  An'  this  so  great,  so  kind  England  will  look  after 
me  an'  my  young  wife  because  we  are  good — so  good,  and  no 
trouble  to  nobodies." 

"Augh!"  Vortonitch  broke  into  a  harsh  laugh.  "Well, 
then,  I  was  mistaken — a  fool.  I  acknowledge  it!  Look  at 
this  damned  hole  of  a  place;  look  at  me — ill,  half -starved; 
look  at  my  wife.  What'll  there  be  left  of  her,  after  another 
year  of  this?  See  here,  Grobo:  she  sold  her  watch  yesterday, 
poor  girl — her  watch  that  she'd  had  since  she  was  a  child. 
And  for  what?  Food — food!"  Vortonitch  flung  to  his 
feet;  then — for  he  was  still  so  weak  that  any  sudden  move- 
ment made  him  giddy — caught  at  the  mantelshelf  and  stood 
swaying,  glowering  round  him.  "Look  at  this  damned  room, 
this  pretence  of  a  fire — no  fire  in  the  sitting-room — the  reek  of 
fat  here  because  it's  here  the  soup  must  be  made,  to  save  the 
gas!  Four  lumps  of  coal  in  the  fender:  'Make  'em  last 
until  to-night — no  more  to-day;  can't  afford  any  more,'  or 
so  she  says,  damn  her!  The  General's  daughter!"  He 
laughed  hysterically.  "My  tame  General's  daughter!  My 
God!  My  God!" 

"  It's  'ard  on  'er,  my  dear,"  said  Grobo  gently. 

"  It's  hard  on  all  of  us — life's  hard,"  responded  Vortonitch 
sulkily. 

"  If  only  you  'adn't  made  up  your  mind  to  cut  yourself 

apart  from  us "  The  little  man  spoke  regretfully,  feeling 

his  way;  but  Vortonitch's  loud  laugh  relieved  him;  he  knew 
where  he  was  with  a  man  who  laughed  like  that. 

"You  didn't  believe  it,  that  I  meant  it?" 

"For  'ow  long  you'd  mean  it." 

"  How  long  they'd  let  me  mean  it,  rather."  Vortonitch 
had  risen  from  his  chair;  was  moving  round  the  little  room, 
kicking  things  aside,  throwing  them  out  of  the  way  with  a 
sort  of  savagery,  a  bitter  glance  and  toss  of  his  head  at  his 
own  reflection  in  the  glass. 

"Look  here,  Grobo;  I've  something  to  ask  you." 

"Yes?" 

"You  don't  believe  that  I'd  done  with  it,  really  done 
with  it;  that  anyone  could  be  done  with  it,  eh?  That  was 
lie  number  one.  And  now  for  the  other."  He  had  returned 
to  his  post  in  front  of  the  fire,  stood  with  his  elbows  crooked 
back  in  his  favourite  position  upon  the  mantelshelf,  and 
stared  at  Grobo;  sneeringly  and  yet  with  a  sort  of  friendliness, 


LAURA  CREICHTON  217 

for  it  seemed  as  though  they  were  getting  things  clear  between 
them  at  last. 

"Lie  number  two.  You  didn't  believe,  whatever  that 
fellow  Triibner  might  have  said,  that  it  was  Boyce  who  en- 
gineered the  first  affair  at  Woolwich.  Come,  now!" 

"What  was  one  to  believe?" 

"You  didn't  believe  it,  I  say;  but  you  chose  to  pretend 
you  did,  to  let  others  believe  that  you  did." 

"My  friend,  you  was  in  love."  The  little  man  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  spread  out  his  hands  with  an  oddly  tolerant 
gesture.  "  It  was  best  to  count  you  out,  for  a  while  at  least." 

"And  you  didn't  believe  that  I  played  the  fool  with  that 
other  bomb,  either.  Now  we're  at  it,  let's  have  it  out :  you 
didn't  believe  it!"  cried  Vortonitch  fiercely,  challenging. 

Grobo  rose  to  his  feet,  picked  up  his  little  black  pudding- 
basin  of  a  hat  from  the  table  and  wiped  it  round  with  his 
sleeve.  "  I  believed  it,  because  it  was  the  sort  of  thing  you 
might  do,"  he  said,  speaking  slowly  and  gravely;  "and  that 
alone  constituted  a  danger:  because  you  are  theatrical,  my 
friend,  an'  a  man  who  is  like  that  does  not  know  where  to 
stop — more  particularly  when  he  is  suffering  from  an  excess 
of  sex." 

"  You  dare  to  say  that  you  imagined  me  as  capable  of 
betraying  our  cause!"  Vortonitch  was  honestly  indignant: 
once  again  it  was  "  our  cause." 

"  Not  so  much  betraying  the  cause,  my  friend,  but  for- 
getting, for  the  moment,  which  was  the  cause,"  answered 
Grobo  coolly,  pursing  up  his  lips.  "  You  were  'and  in  glove 
with  those  'oo  were  against  us,  an'  it  all  depended — 

"On  what,  eh?" 

"  If  they  would  'ave  you." 

"What  the  hell- 

"Ah!  now,  now!  Why  so  savage?"  He  put  out  one 
chubby  hand  and  touched  the  other  man  upon  the  breast. 
"It  is  all  well  now:  they  'ave  not  taken  you  to  their  'carts, 
not  by  any  manner  of  means,  an'  now  you  are  like  any  one  of 
ourselves  once  more;  against  them,  more  fiercely  than  ever, 
for  it  so  that  such  things  'appen  as  do  'appen,  eh?" 

"What  the  devil  should  I  want  with  them?  What  .  .  ." 
began  Vortonitch  angrily;  then  broke  off,  laughing.  "By 
God,  Grobo,  I  can't  say  I  admire  your  taste!  Come,  now — 
all  this  talk,  all  this  fuss  over  my  being  theatrical,  and  then 
to  put  Stein — Stein,  of  all  people — in  my  place!  Stein,  who 
would  see  us  all  in  hell  for  the  sake  of  a  claque — and,  by  Christ, 


218  LAURA  CREICHTON 

you'd  burn  well,  my  little  friend,  frizzling — the  fat  in  the 
fire!"  He  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  again,  deriding 
not  only  Grobo  but  humanity  itself. 

As  to  Grobo,  he  glanced  at  him  coolly,  weighing  him  up. 
"  No  need  for  you  to  be  jealous  of  Stein,  my  dear.  'E  'as  'is 
little  job,  but,  believe  me,  it  is  not  easy,  it  is  not  nice;  you 
are  well  out  of  it.  It  was  given  to  'im  because  it  comes  to 
this:  it  is  dangerous,  and  we  can  do  without  Comrade  Stein, 
very  well  we  can  do  without  'im.  My  wife  does  not  like  'im." 
The  last  words  were  uttered  with  the  greatest  simplicity,  as 
though  they  constituted  the  best  of  reasons  for  helping  any 
man  out  of  the  world. 

Once  more  he  touched  Vortonitch  upon  the  chest,  muffled 
in  a  crookedly-buttoned  great-coat,  fixing  his  bland  gaze  upon 
the  dark,  mocking  eyes  above  him.  "But  for  yourself,  my 
friend — look  'ere:  you  chose  to  count  yourself  out,  an'  a  man 
'oo  does  that  is  no  good  to  'imself  or  to  anyone  else  either. 
But  let  me  tell  you  this :  there  is  one  thing  to  be  done,  an'  for 
that  I  'ave  my  eye  upon  you,  Comrade,  and  upon  you  alone." 
Grobo  had  dropped  his  half-comic  foreign  intonation,  spoke 
with  weight  and  solemnity.  "But  first  of  all  you  must  send 
your  wife  'ome  to  'er  own  people.  Some  day,  if  she  comes 
back,  she  may  be  of  use  with  'er  prattle;  but  this  thing  that 
I  'ave  for  you  to  do  now  is  for  a  man  as  sleeps  alone  at  night. 
I  know  it  is  an  'ard  thing  to  ask  you,  my  dear " 

"You  have  not  told  me  what  it  is." 

"To  send  your  wife,  your  so  charming  and  sweet  young 
wife  from  your  side." 

"Oh,  that!"  Vortonitch,  who  had  picked  up  a  pair  of 
scissors  from  the  mantelshelf  and  was  busy  with  his  nails, 
assuming  indifference  while  his  whole  being  hung  upon  the 
thought  of  what  Grobo  might  be  about  to  propose,  barked  out 
with  a  derisive  laugh. 

"That!  By  God,  if  you  only  knew  how  sick  I  am  of  it 
all!" 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

VORTONITCH  rose  before  noon  next  day,  hung  about  for  a 
while,  and  then  went  out.  It  was  close  upon  midnight  when 
he  came  back;  it  had  been  raining  heavily,  and  he  was  wet 
to  the  skin. 

That  night  he  was  once  again  feverish,  sleepless,  torn  by 
his  cough.  For  all  that,  he  seemed  possessed  by  a  fury  of 
exhilaration  and  excitement,  a  restlessness  which  would  not 
allow  him  to  remain  quiet;  good-tempered  enough,  even  gay, 
and  yet  further  removed  from  his  wife — or  so  it  seemed  to 
Laura — than  he  had  ever  been  before;  launched  off  at  some 
unseen  tangent. 

During  the  next  three  days  he  was  scarcely  at  home  for  an 
hour  together,  laughed  Laura  and  her  "fussing"  to  scorn; 
careless  of  himself,  stung  to  sudden  wild  bursts  of  irritation 
by  the  most  innocent  question  as  t»  his  whereabouts  or 
doings. 

As  to  Laura,  she  went  on  with  her  duties  blindly,  deter- 
mined to  let  nothing  go;  drugging  herself  with  work;  with 
something  of  her  father's  obstinate  adherence  to  things  as 
they  were,  determined  to  keep  her  eyes  fixed  upon  what  was 
immediately  beneath  them. 

On  the  fourth  day  she  had  Vortonitch  back  upon  her 
hands  again,  her  child  and  lover:  really  ill  this  time,  with  an 
alarmingly  high  temperature,  clinging  to  her,  unable  to  bear 
her  out  of  his  sight  for  more  than  a  few  moments  together. 

During  this  brief  Indian  summer  he  allowed  himself  to  be 
nursed,  to  have  his  bed  made,  the  room  cleaned  and  tidied; 
to  be  tended  and  washed,  raising  his  face  like  a  child;  doing 
as  he  was  bid,  grateful  and  tender.  It  really  seemed,  indeed, 
to  himself — less,  perhaps,  to  Laura,  who  was  now  becoming 
fearful  of  happiness — that  some  fierce  fire  had  burnt  itself  out, 
leaving  him  at  rest.  In  between  the  bouts  of  fever,  indeed,  he 
floated  upon  a  vague  and  blissful  sea  of  indifference:  when- 
ever his  temperature  rose,  as  it  did  towards  evening,  he  cared 
for  nothing  but  the  present:  his  own  suffering;  his  wife's 
cool  hand  upon  his  forehead;  the  sense  of  her  as  near,  and 

219 


220  LAURA  CREICHTON 

forever  ready  to  open  or  shut  a  window,  to  turn  his  pillow,  to 
hold  a  cooling  draught  to  his  lips. 

It  passed — oh,  of  course  it  passed! — as  Laura  herself  had 
known  it  must.  So  short  a  while  before  everything  had 
seemed  capable  of  permanence;  she  knew  better  now,  growing 
years  older  with  the  knowledge,  miserly  over  her  happiness. 

Still,  it  might  have  lasted  longer  than  it  did,  for  it  was  not 
ended,  was  still  almost  perfect — not  quite,  for  there  was  already 
that  sort  of  dryness,  that  shadow  which  one  may  see  creeping 
over  the  trees  while  summer  is  still  at  its  height;  the  shadow  of 
autumn;  of  inevitable  decay — when  Grobo  called  again,  bring- 
ing a  jelly  from  his  wife,  with  the  kindest  enquiries;  sending 
Laura  to  see  if  the  invalid  were  awake  and  could  receive  him, 
tiptoeing  into  his  room,  closing  the  door  so  gently  behind  him. 

As  she  bent  over  some  scraps  of  washing  in  the  living- 
room,  she  could  hear  nothing  save  a  subdued  murmur  next 
door;  until,  quite  suddenly,  Vortonitch's  voice  struck  upon 
her  ear,  shrill,  as  it  was  apt  to  be  in  moments  of  excitement: 

"How  can  I  do  without  her  now?  I'm  ill,  I  tell  you. 

How  can  I  be  left  alone  in  this  state?  I'm "  breaking  off 

as  Grobo  interposed  with  a  deadened  flow  of  indistinguishable 
words,  running  on  and  on  and  on.  Now  and  then,  as  they 
broke  for  a  moment,  Laura  realised  that  her  husband  was 
speaking,  but  that  was  all. 

Once  Grobo  opened  the  door  sharply,  and  peered  out: 
"We're  not  disturbing  you,  I  'ope,  Madame?"  he  asked,  and 
she  answered,  "  No,"  puzzled  by  the  question.  It  was  far 
later  that  it  occurred  to  her  to  wonder  if  he  had  suspected  her 
of  listening  at  the  door,  tried  to  catch  her. 

At  last  he  came  out,  closed  the  bedroom  door  behind  him, 
and  picking  up  his  hat  from  the  table  where  he  had  laid  it. 
smoothed  it  round  with  his  sleeve.  "  I  am  sorry  to  find  our 
poor  Paul  not  so  well,  Madame — 

Laura  turned,  wiping  her  hand  upon  a  towel,  her  grave 
face,  so  soft  and  young  in  that  half-light,  full  of  trouble. 

"  'E  is  much  grieved,  downsetting  'imself  over  your  posi- 
tion with  your  own  people,  Madame,"  continued  Grobo.  ''  'E 
feels,  if  anything  were  to  'appen  to  'im  .  .  ."  He  hesitated, 
drawing  up  his  lower  lip,  gazing  at  her  benignly  through  his 
great  round  glasses.  "Teh,  tch!  Ah,  well,  it  is  natural!" 

"But  he  is  not  so  ill — not  ill  like  that!"  Laura  took  a 
step  forward,  gazing  at  him,  alarmed  and  puzzled.  "  He  went 
out  too  soon,  that  is  all;  he  wouldn't  take  any  care  of  himself; 
he  got  wet  through.  But  in  a  few  days  he'll  be  all  right  again." 


LAURA  CREICHTON  221 

Grobo  dropped  his  eyes,  looking  into  his  hat,  turning  it 
round  with  a  sort  of  grave  concern. 

"  I  think,  if  I  were  you,  Madame,  I  would  write  to  my 
parents." 

"How  can  I?  When  they  said  .  .  .  Oh,  he  knows.  It  is 
no  use:  we  must  live  our  own  lives." 

"  Yes,"  said  Grobo,  "  so  long  as  .  .  ."  He  paused,  pulling 
at  his  under-lip,  like  a  child. 

"So  long  as  .  .  .?  What  do  you  mean?"  Laura  moved 
nearer;  then,  as  he  did  not  answer,  realising,  oh,  so  well,  the 
effect  of  suspense,  touched  his  arm.  "What  do  you  mean? 
What  can  you  mean  by  that?" 

"So  long — so  long  as  you  both  have  a  life  to  live,  eh, 
Madame?" 

"  Oh,  but  indeed  you're  mistaken.  He's  not  ill  like  that — 
indeed  he's  not."  Laura  spoke  with  passion,  and,  more,  with 
conviction;  for  no  reason  at  all  it  came  into  her  head  that  an 
attempt  was  being  made  to  frighten  her.  "  If  only  he'll  take 
care  of  himself,  let  me  take  care  of  him,  he'll  soon  get  well: 
he  is  better  now.  If  he  was  so  ill,  he'd  not  improve  like  this." 

"  'E  can't  get  well  while  'e  is  un'appy,  as  'e  is  now, 
Madame.  'E  'as  great  worries,  grave  worries.  'E  feels  that 
'e  'as  taken  you  from  your  own  'ome,  your  own  peoples,  and 
that  'e  can  now  do  nothing  for  you." 

"What  more  do  I  want?  I've  everything  I  want.  What 
did  he  mean  when  he  called  out  that  he  couldn't  be  left?"  she 
challenged  Grobo,  bravely  enough,  and  desperately,  too;  for 
quite  suddenly  a  sense  of  complete  helplessness  overcame  her. 
a  feeling  as  though  she  were  fighting  her  way  through  or  over 
a  mountain  of  cotton- wool.  Hitherto  she  had  taken  this 
rotund  little  man  at  his  face  value,  as  an  inoffensive  clerk 
or  shopman,  the  husband  of  a  remarkable  wife,  the  father  of 
remarkable  children.  Now,  for  no  special  reason  whatever, 
she  realised  a  certain  significance  and  power,  a  ruthlessness. 
The  thought  of  his  effect  upon  her  husband  during  the  last 
few  days  came  to  her;  the  thought  of  his  friends,  Stein  among 
others;  the  memory  of  a  haggard-faced  man  who  had  called 
at  these  very  rooms  only  a  week  or  two  earlier,  to  enquire  if 
he  were  there;  a  man  whose  features  she  had  seemed  to 
recognise  later  in  the  portrait  of  a  suicide  in  one  of  the 
daily  illustrated  papers;  while  added  to  all  this  were  the 
strange,  the  sinister  assertions  let  fall  by  Albert,  that  strange 
and  sinister  child,  with  the  words  "my  father  says"  tagged 
on  as  quotation  marks. 


222  LAURA  CREICHTON 

All  this  flooded  her  mind;  not  definitely,  or  in  itself,  as 
it  were,  but  as  an  atmosphere  which,  hanging  around  Grobo, 
seemed  to  have  become  charged  with  antagonism;  danger, 
even,  though  that  was  far  too  melodramatic  a  word  to  take 
any  actual  form  in  her  naturally  unimaginative  mind. 

"  'E  thought  as  'ow  it  would  be  best  for  you  to  return  for 
a  little  bit,  when  'e  could  go  into  some  'ome  or  'ospital  until 
'e  could  regain  'is  strength — eh?  Come,  now,  Madame!" 

"Home  or  hospital?  But  he  is  not  ill  enough  for  that." 
Laura  spoke  obstinately;  but  her  own  voice  sounded  flat, 
without  power,  in  her  ears. 

"'E  thought  'e  would,"  continued  Grobo  mildly.  "It 
was  'is  own  idea,  Madame;  and  then  'e  thought  'e  wouldn't. 
'E  is  sick,  'e  'as  no  fix  in  'is  mind.  Afterwards  'e  thought  'e 
would  send  you  'ome,  an'  stay  'ere  alone;  an'  then  it  came 
to  'im  as  'ow  'e  couldn't  bear  to  part  with  you,  and  'e  called 
out  as  you  'eard  'im." 

"  But  how  could  I  go  home?  How  could  I  leave  him  when 
he  is  ill?  Why,  I've  done  everything  for  him;  we've  been 
everything  to  each  other.  To  go  home  now!  They  would 
think  .  .  .  Oh,  I  couldn't — don't  you  see  I  couldn't?"  For 
the  life  of  her  she  could  not  have  said  why  she  appealed  to 
Grobo,  as  though  he  had  anything  to  do  with  it,  as  though  it 
had  anything  to  do  with  him.  But  there  it  was:  with  a  sud- 
den access  of  instinct,  wiser  than  reason,  she  felt  as  though  she 
could  have  thrown  herself  upon  her  knees  at  the  man's  feet, 
begging  and  entreating  him — for  what? — for  what?  Not  for 
life,  not  for  her  life  or  her  husband's,  but  their  happiness 
together — all  it  meant  to  them. 

"How  can  I  go?  If  I  go  now,  even  if  I  write  .  .  ."  She. 
hesitated:  a  sense  of  fear  that  she  could  not  trust  herself  to 
handle  two  such  strangely  diverse  threads  of  life — life  as  it 
was  at  her  old  home,  as  it  was  here — came  over  her;  a  feeling 
as  though  it  were  all  utterly  beyond  her.  "  Don't  talk  of  it 
to  anyone,"  Vortonitch  had  warned  her,  speaking  of  their 
love:  she  had  escaped  once,  because  she  had  been  swept  off 
her  feet,  with  no  time  for  talk;  but  now — now  .  .  .  Her 
whole  safety  had  lain  in  complete  separation  from  her  family. 
If  she  were  not  beaten  down,  she  would  at  least  be  worn  out 
by  arrangements  and  dissuasion,  by  her  own  affection,  the 
claims  of  conscience.  She  had  known  this  all  the  while,  and 
for  this  reason  she  had  not  dared  to  give  rein  to  any  feeling 
apart  from  that  for  her  husband. 

"I  can't  do  it."    She  spoke  with  the  blunt  simplicity  of 


LAURA  CREICHTON  223 

one  who  sees  and  realises  the  end  of  her  powers.  Ridiculously 
enough,  she  still  held  the  towel  upon  which  she  had  been 
drying  her  hands,  clasping  it  to  her  bosom.  The  fireless  room 
was  very  cold,  and  she  had  thrown  a  square  of  some  dark 
material  over  her  shoulders  like  a  shawl.  The  sun  was  setting 
in  a  glow  of  dull  gold  behind  a  dark  mass  of  St.  Bartholo- 
mew's Hospital,  and,  high  up  as  they  were,  the  slanting  attic 
window  caught  it,  setting  a  fine  gold  line  round  Laura's  head. 
Carl  Grobo,  who  was  a  sentimentalist,  with  an  eye  to  beauty, 
found  himself  reminded  of  a  picture  of  Mary  at  the  Cross:  her 
life  was  nothing  to  him,  he  would  have  used  her  as  a  torch  to 
any  sort  of  blaze  he  set  his  mind  to;  but  for  all  that,  he  was 
touched  by  the  picture  of  this  young  wife,  so  devoted,  so  fair. 

"If  it  is  for  'is  good,  to  save  'is  life ?" 

"  Oh,  but  it  can  be  no  question  of  that;  if  he  was  as  ill  as 

all  that "  Laura  broke  off,  overcome  by  a  sense  of  her 

own  ignorance.  How  could  she  say  how  ill  he  was?  For 
that  they  must  have  a  doctor,  and  a  doctor  would  mean 
money;  she  had  no  idea  how  much,  but  everyone,  she  knew, 
growled  over  the  doctor's  bills.  Little  wonder  that,  with  her  mind 
in  this  state,  Grobo's  last  argument,  carefully  thought  out, 
carefully  timed  as  it  was,  struck  home. 

"You  must  not  judge  by  your  own  people,  Madame. 
Paul  'as  not  the  splendid  stamina,  the  so  magnificently  well- 
nourished  youth  be'ind  him.  'E  'as  suffered  much,"  he  said; 
and  left  it  at  that,  bowing  his  way  out  of  the  room,  a  little  on 
tiptoe  in  the  overtight  boots  which  were  his  one  personal 
vanity;  while  Laura  turned  towards  her  husband's  door,  opened 
it,  and,  finding  him  hunched  together  over  the  dying  fire, 
brought  broken  wood  and  small  pieces  of  coal  from  the  cup- 
board on  the  landing,  knelt  to  replenish  it. 

"  Directly  you  are  warm  again,  I  think  you'd  be  better  back 
in  bed,"  she  said,  as  it  leapt  and  sparkled;  sitting  back  on  her 
heels  to  watch  the  blaze,  apparently  engrossed  with  the  fire;  her 
mind  busied  over  the  thought  of  what,  or  how  much,  she  might 
venture  to  say  to  Vortonitch:  anxious  and  yet  not  daring  to 
show  her  anxiety.  For,  happy  as  the  last  few  days  had  been, 
they  were  overshadowed  by  the  memory  of  those  long  periods 
during  which  she  had  scarcely  dared  to  speak  for  fear  of  saying 
the  wrong  thing.  To  her  momentary  relief,  her  husband  laid 
one  hand  upon  her  shoulder,  and  spoke  more  like  his  old  self. 

"You've  burdened  yourself  with  a  useless  piece  of  goods, 
my  Laura.  A  nice  tangle  we've  got  ourselves  into!  What 
are  we  to  do  now,  eh?" 


224  LAURA  CREICHTON 

"  First  go  off,  I'll  get  the  kettle  on  and  make  you  some  tea. 
Mr.  Grobo  stayed  too  long;  your  hands  are  like  ice."  She 
dropped  her  cheek  to  the  one  lying  on  her  shoulder.  "Why, 
I  can  feel  it  freezing  through  my  blouse." 

"Yes,  yes,  tea — that's  capital!  The  one  solace  left  us, 
eh?"  Vortonitch  spoke  with  a  sort  of  light  bitterness  which 
failed  to  ring  true.  As  she  moved  about  the  room,  waiting 
for  the  kettle  to  boil,  drawing  the  curtains,  lighting  the  gas, 
Laura  felt  him  watching  her,  wistfully  and  yet  almost  fur- 
tively, averting  his  eyes  when  she  glanced  up. 

Directly  he  had  finished  his  tea,  he  went  back  to  bed: 
here  at  least  was  physical  comfort  and  peace,  and  he  hugged  it 
to  himself.  Grobo  had  issued  an  order,  and  it  must  be 
obeyed,  however  much  he  might,  at  the  moment,  shrink  from 
effort;  unless — well,  unless  he  threw  up  everything,  and  that 
even  more  definitely  than  before.  He  found  himself  wonder- 
ing how  far  his  life  would  be  safe,  once  really  suspected  of 
desertion.  Not  that  he  feared  the  thought  of  death.  What  he 
did  fear  was  that  desperate  sense  of  depression  and  despair, 
like  nothing  he  had  ever  before  experienced,  which  had  over- 
come him  before  that  first  visit  of  Grobo's — something  worse, 
far  worse  than  any  death;  for  then,  for  the  first  time,  literally 
for  the  first  time,  he  had  doubted  any  possible  rebound;  been 
overcome  by  the  thought  of  all  that  remained  of  life  dragging 
itself  out  like  this;  with  no  danger — for  poverty  in  itself  held 
no  special  fears  for  him — no  temptation,  no  exciting  possi- 
bilities. How  appaling  it  had  been  to  picture  himself  as  the 
ordinary  married  man  of  infinitesimal  means,  his  wife  for  ever 
there,  fraying  out  before  his  eyes!  For  dearly  as  he  loved 
Laura,  in  his  loving  moods,  she  might  have  held  him  better 
could  she  have  combined  the  sweetness  of  her  purity  with  the 
uncertainty  of  her  possession  as  his  mistress. 

As  she  smoothed  the  sheet  beneath  his  chin,  with  her  old 
exaggerated  motherliness,  which  was  half  a  game  between 
them,  he  pulled  her  to  him. 

"  Lay  your  head  on  the  pillow  by  me;  I  want  to  speak  to 
you,"  he  said;  then,  before  she  had  time  to  comply:  "Laura, 
it's  the  end;  we  can't  go  on  like  this." 

"How  do  you  mean?"  Almost  unconsciously  she  drew 
herself  upright,  stiffening  under  the  attack. 

"  Oh,  well,  can't  you  see?  You'll  have  to  write  to  your 
people;  you'll  have  to  go  home  for  awhile.  There's  no  help  for 
it.  I'd  no  business  to  take  you  away,  to  run  you  into  this." 

"I  can't  go." 


LAURA  CREICHTON  225 

"  You  must  go." 

"It's  Grobo  who  put  the  idea  into  your  head:  you'd 
never  have  thought  of  it  otherwise." 

"What  nonsense!  what  folly!"  Vortonitch  drew  himself 
upright  against  the  pillow,  the  colour  flaming  to  his  cheeks. 
"  Do  you  imagine  I'd  have  Grobo,  or  anyone  else,  interfere 
with  my  private  affairs?" 

"I'm  sure  he  did." 

"You  can  be  sure  as  you  like,  but  the  fact  remains — 
we  can't  carry  on  like  this.  You'll  have  to  go." 

"Supposing  I  refuse?" 

"Supposing  I  leave  you?"  For  a  moment  their  glances 
met,  full  of  a  fierce  challenge.  Then  Vortonitch  turned  aside, 
speaking  querulously,  dropping  a  little  in  the  bed,  drawing  the 
blankets  up  over  his  shoulders.  "You  can  think  of  no  one 
but  yourself.  You  fuss  over  me,  pretending  to  nurse  me,  to 
be  overcome  with  anxiety;  you  say  you'd  do  anything  for 
me,  and  yet  .  .  ."  He  broke  off  with  an  angry  shrug. 

"What  is  it  you  want  me  to  do — you  yourself,  Paul?" 

"Haven't  I  told  you?  I  want  you  to  write  to  your 
people,  see  if  they'll  have  you  back  for  a  bit.  Give  me  time 
to  look  round  me,  to  get  better,  free  of  all  this  eternal  petty 
worry." 

"What  would  you  do?" 

"  Grobo  thought  I'd  be  better  in  a  nursing-home  for  a 
while;  and  then  I  must  find  a  job." 

"  Oh ! "  For  some  reason  which  she  could  not  have 
explained,  Laura  moved  over  to  the  window,  pulled  aside  a 
corner  of  the  curtain,  and,  pressing  her  face  against  the  glass, 
peered  out. 

The  pink  glow  was  lost  in  two  masses  of  cloud,  dirty 
umber  and  dull  blackish-grey.  For  a  moment  or  so  she  stood 
silent;  then,  letting  the  curtain  fall,  turned  back  to  her 
husband's  bedside,  and,  dropping  upon  her  knees,  drew  his 
hand  into  her  own. 

At  first  it  seemed  as  though  he  would  drag  it  away,  like  a 
fractious  child;  then  he  let  it  lie  there,  relinquishing  it  with 
a  slight  shrug. 

"  Paul,  do  you  really  mean  that  you  want  me  to  write,  to 
ask  them  to  let  me  go  back,  to  forgive  me,  as  if — well,  as  if  I 
was  sorry?" 

"That's  the  meaning  they  might  put  into  it;  it  has 
nothing  to  do  with  you,"  answered  Vortonitch  sullenly. 

"But  you  mean  it? — to  leave  you,  to  go  back!" 


226  LAURA  CREICHTON 

"Good  God,  girl,  you  talk  as  though  it  were  the  affair  of 
a  lifetime!  A  week  or  two  at  the  most.  Look  here,  Laura: 
do  you  imagine  that  it  isn't  as  hard  for  me  as  it  is  for  you — 
that  I've  no  feelings  of  any  sort  in  the  matter?" 

He  glanced  at  her  sideways,  her  grave,  almost  preoccupied 
face.  Quite  suddenly  he  was  alarmed,  remembering  all  that 
Grobo  had  said  of  the  obstinacy  of  this  type  of  woman — "  the 
English  lady."  At  the  same  moment  he  was  overpowered  by  a 
conviction  that  he  desired  nothing  on  earth  save  to  be  free  to 
indulge  in  whatever  adventure  might  offer;  and  upon  this, 
without  a  single  qualm,  he  took  the  one  course  which  would, 
as  he  well  knew,  prove  effectual. 

"For  my  sake,  Laura,  whatever  it  may  cost  me — and 
God  only  knows  what  it  will  cost  me — I  want  you  to  do  as  I 
ask;  so  that  I  may  prove  myself,  make  some  sort  of  life 
possible  for  us  both.  Not  because  I  don't  love  you,  but 
because  I  love  you  better  than  anything  else  in  life.  Laura — 
my  precious,  my  love — see  here,  I'm  more  ill  than  you  think; 
if  I  didn't  care,  if  I  didn't  worry  so,  it  would  be  easier,  but 
now  .  .  .  Good  God!  Laura,  can't  you  see  what  it  costs  me 
to  send  you  away  from  me?  But  it's  the  only  way;  I  know 
it's  the  only  way,  if  I'm  not  to  kill  myself  with  self-reproach." 

A  month  earlier  she  would  have  had  her  arms  about  his 
neck  at  this,  promising  anything,  anything.  But  now  she  rose 
to  her  feet  with  an  expression  which  Vortonitch  was  unable  to 
fathom  upon  her  face.  "  I  will  think  it  over,"  she  said ;  hesi- 
tated a  moment,  gazing  at  him,  and  then,  turning,  moved 
away  into  the  next  room. 

Was  she  ceasing  to  care?  Was  he  losing  his  power  over 
her?  Did  she  suspect  anything?  The  blood  pounded 
through  Vortonitch's  veins  as  he  lay  wondering.  That  was 
always  the  difficulty  with  women;  one  never  knew — never, 
never:  the  more  they  talked,  the  less  they  said.  And  the  worst 
of  it  all  was  one  wanted  so  much,  and  yet,  at  the  same  time, 
wanted  to  be  free  of  so  much.  Even  now  he  was  in  two  minds 
whether  or  not  to  call  Laura  back.  He  was  growing  feverish 
again;  he  knew  it.  If  only  she  might  lie  down  by  his  side, 
fold  him  in  her  arms,  petting,  comforting  he  would  be  all 
right;  but  the  devil  of  it  all  was  she  would  be  asking  then,  and 
with  reason:  "How  can  I  leave  you?  How  is  it  possible  for 
you  to  do  without  me?" 

With  a  groan  of  despair  he  pulled  the  blankets  up  above 
his  ears  and  turned  over  upon  his  side,  burying  his  head  in  the 
pillows. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

LATER  that  same  evening,  upon  the  pretense  of  enquiring 
after  Lily,  Laura  went  round  to  the  Grobo's  flat. 

As  it  happened,  Lily  had  been  worse  the  night  before,  and 
so  passed  the  day  in  bed,  where  she  now  was  sleeping,  with  the 
baby  in  the  hollow  of  her  arm;  for  devoted  as  her  mother  was, 
she  showed  herself  completely  disregardf ul — or  was  it  fatalistic 
— in  respect  to  any  infection  from  that  dread  complaint  which 
had  made  itself  so  plainly  evident  in  her  little  daughter,  with 
ravages  so  rapid  and  remorseless  that  it  seemed  as  though  the 
disease  must  end  by  taking  upon  itself  some  sort  of  bodily 
form,  an  insatiate  beast  fattened  and  bloated  by  the  young 
life  upon  which  it  had  fed. 

When  Laura  arrived,  Mrs.  Grobo  was  out,  little  Marie, 
aged  six,  and  the  two  toddlers  playing  with  their  bricks  upon 
the  hearthrug,  absorbed  and  self-sufficient,  as  every  single 
member  of  that  family  appeared  to  be. 

It  was  with  a  sort  of  courteous  condescension,  indeed,  that 
they  allowed  her  to  join  them;  though,  once  established,  they 
held  back,  fascinated  by  her  superior  skill,  demanding  none  of 
her  attention  for  themselves  in  the  way  that  most  children 
would  have  done. 

As  to  Laura,  as  she  sat  crouched  upon  her  heels,  adding 
storey  to  storey  with  a  steady  hand,  her  mind  was  engrossed 
in  the  thought  of  what  Vortonitch  had  said  to  her,  while  she 
repeated  his  words  over  and  over  again  to  herself,  her  own 
objection  to  and  fears  for  his  plans,  as  she  would  put  them  to 
Mrs.  Grobo,  sure  of  her  sympathy  and  affection. 

The  place  was  very  still,  for  the  children  were  awed  to 
silence  by  the  height  to  which  she  had  brought  her  erection — 
a  sort  of  Eiffel  Tower;  though  every  now  and  then,  as  yet 
another  tier  was  added,  there  was  an  irresistible  giggle,  a 
long-drawn  "A-a-ah!" 

Their  eyes  were  bright,  their  round  faces  flushed.  Charles 
lay  flat  upon  his  stomach,  his  legs  in  the  air,  his  chin  cupped 
in  his  hands;  while  the  other  two  squatted  bent  forwards. 

A  bright  fire  was  burning  in  the  stove,  the  kettle  singing. 

227 


228  LAURA  CREICHTON 

the  cat  purring.  Nothing  could  have  seemed  more  conven- 
tionally homely  and  peaceful;  and  yet,  to  Laura's  mind,  it 
was  all  changed,  overhung  by  her  own  trouble,  charged  with 
that  new  conception  of  Grobo  himself  which  had  come  to  her 
that  afternoon.  It  would  be  different  when  Mrs.  Grobo  came 
in;  she  told  herself  this  again  and  again;  for  she,  above  all 
people,  possessed  that  delightful  faculty  of  smoothing  out. 
putting  things  to  rights.  And,  after  all,  it  was  she,  and  not 
her  husband,  who  really  counted,  or  so  Laura — pushing  forward 
this  certainty  in  front  of  her  vague  fears,  using  it  as  a  sort 
of  shield — told  herself. 

Someone  was  moving  about  overhead  in  the  loft,  which 
she  never  imagined  as  anything  more  than  a  box-room,  and  it 
made  her  nervous.  Of  a  sudden,  her  hand  shook,  the  tower 
fell  with  a  crash,  and  there  was  a  loud  wail  from  little 
Charles,  always  the  most  exuberant  of  the  three. 

At  that  moment  Mrs.  Grobo  opened  the  door,  and  stood 
looking  in  upon  them,  with  Joseph,  the  boy  next  in  age  to 
Albert,  at  her  elbow.  She  was  carrying  a  basket  so  evidently 
weighty  that  it  dragged  her  all  on  one  side;  while  it  must  have 
begun  to  rain,  heavily  too,  since  Laura  came  in,  for  the  water 
streamed  from  off  their  clothes,  and  the  brim  of  Mrs.  Grobo's 
hat  was  bent  over  her  eyes,  dripping. 

"Laura!"  For  the  first  time  there  seemed  more  of 
surprise  than  pleasure  in  her  voice;  and  she  did  not  even  greet 
the  girl,  beyond  that  one  word,  as  she  moved  forward  to  the 
table,  raised  the  basket  with  an  effort  and  placed  it  upon  it, 
enquiring:  "Where  is  Grobo?  Is  he  not  here?" 

"  I  think  not.  .  .  .  There  is  someone  moving  about  in  the 
attic,  but — I  .  .  ."  Laura  spoke  confusedly,  breaking  off 
without  knowing  what  to  say,  for  it  seemed  that  the  homelike 
atmosphere  of  this  place,  where  she  had  been  so  happy,  had 
suddenly  grown  strange,  almost  repellent:  while  she  felt  as 
though  she  were  being  deliberately  shut  out  of  something,  she 
could  not  have  said  what.  "Why,  I  don't  believe  you  ever, 
put  up  your  umbrella,  you  hopeless  people!"  she  added  with 
a  little  laugh,, realising  the  folded  umbrella  in  Joseph's  hand,  and 
catching  at  the  obvious  with  as  much  relief  as  though  she  were 
among  strangers,  unable  to  feel  at  ease  upon  any  subject. 

"  I  hadn't  a  hand  to  spare."  The  answer  was  reasonable 
enough;  but  something  in  Mrs.  Grobo's  voice  showed  that  it 
was  automatic,  that  she  had  no  thought  for  what  she  was 
saying.  "Joseph,  you  must  go  and  take  off  your  wet  things 
at  once;  and  you  little  ones  ought  to  be  in  bed." 


LAURA  CREICHTON  229 

Even  here,  the  words,  the  concern  for  her  children,  seemed 
to  Laura's  mind  merely  perfunctory;  it  was  not  the  thought 
of  them,  nor  was  it  her  wet  clothes  which  engrossed  her, 
though  she  took  off  her  sodden  hat  and  turned  aside  to  shake 
it  with  a  little  exclamation  of  annoyance.  "Teh,  tch!  And 
not  only  your  shoes  and  stockings,  Joseph — everything,"  she 
was  beginning  again,  when  she  came  back  to  earth,  as  it  were, 
with  an  extraordinary  cry,  the  most  terrifying  and  terror-laden 
sound  imaginable,  swinging  round  to  the  table,  where  little 
Charles,  clambering  on  a  chair  in  search  of  sweeties,  or  out  of 
mere  curiosity,  had  dragged  the  basket  towards  him,  and  with 
one  arm  buried  in  it,  held  it  all  toppled  sideways  at  the  extreme 
edge  of  the  table. 

"Ah-a-ah!"  This  cry,  so  alien  to  everything  in  ordinary 
life,  so  wild  with  fear,  was  followed  by  the  sound  of  a  smart 
smack,  a  howl,  the  crash  of  the  child  falling  from  the  chair  to 
the  floor. 

Laura,  who  had  been  reaching  up  to  hang  Joseph's  wet 
coat  on  a  peg  behind  the  door,  turned  with  her  heart  in  her 
throat,  and  stood  staring. 

She  had  never  before  known  Mrs.  Grobo,  so  calm  and 
slow-moving,  to  strike  one  of  the  children,  even  to  raise  her 
voice;  and  that  cry — she  felt  as  though,  even  now,  she  must 
raise  her  hands  to  her  ears  to  shut  it  out;  as  though  she  could 
never  forget  it,  never,  never  so  long  as  she  lived.  And  yet, 
amazing  as  the  sound,  the  action  might  be,  the  aspect  of 
the  woman  herself  was  even  more  strange;  for,  without  so 
much  as  a  glance  at  the  child  upon  the  floor,  this  good  mother, 
who  at  any  other  time  would  have  run  to  pick  him  up,  com- 
fort him,  had  thrown  herself  across  the  basket:  seemed, 
indeed,  to  be  gathering  it,  hugging  it  to  her  breast,  not  looking 
at  it,  but  away  from  it,  as  though  she  feared  to  see  it,  her  eyes 
staring  into  space,  her  mouth  fixed  wide,  as  though,  having 
uttered  that  one  cry,  she  was  too  terror-stricken  for  another. 

At  the  same  moment  the  door  in  the  wall  at  the  top  of  the 
stairway  opened,  and  Albert  appeared  in  the  aperture;  while 
Lily,  in  her  nightgown  and  bare-footed,  flung  open  the  bedroom 
door,  with  a  hoarse  scream  of : 

"It's  come  .  .  .Mother  .  .  .mother  .  .  0-o-o-h!"  break- 
ing off,  coughing,  both  arms  extended,  clinging  to  the  sides 
of  the  doorway,  shaking  like  a  leaf. 

Mrs.  Grobo's  attitude  and  expression,  following  upon  that 
cry,  something  in  Albert's  face,  Lily,  the  child  on  the  floor,  all 
alike  struck  upon  Laura's  mind  with  a  terrifying  effect,  an 


230  LAURA  CREICHTON 

actual  threat  of  something  never  yet  so  much  as  thought  of: 
not  only  in  relation  to  what  had  happened — the  trifling  offence 
of  an  over-greedy  child — of  what  was  happening,  but  of  what 
might  happen,  dreadful  beyond  all  words:  a  threat  of  some- 
thing hourly  expected,  forever  hanging  over  the  little  family, 
fully  realised  by  the  mother  and,  at  any  rate,  the  two  elder 
children,  whose  daily  life,  tasks,  games  were  pursued  under  the 
shadow  of  it:  a  shadow  so  close  that  it  had  become  familiar 
and  almost  disregarded. 

"By  God!  I  thought  .  .  ."  It  seemed  as  though  words 
failed  Albert,  even  Albert!  His  peaked  face  was  haggard  as 
he  moved  forwards  down  the  stairs,  with  something  drawn- 
back,  as  it  were,  in  his  very  advance.  At  that  moment  as  he 
broke  off,  his  chin  trembling,  and  reaching  the  floor,  seeming 
to  try  it  with  his  feet,  finding  it  firm  and  standing  there,  his 
shoulders  high,  his  clenched  hands  drawn  up  to  them,  he 
might  have  been  any  age;  while  his  mother  made  a  move- 
ment with  her  mouth  as  though  to  bid  him  be  silent,  in  her 
old  way;  drawing  her  tongue  round  her  lips,  raising  her 
neck  and  shoulders  a  trifle,  her  breast  still  pressed  down 
across  the  basket, 

"That  little  beast!"  Albert  shook  himself,  speaking 
with  the  irritation  of  one  who  finds  himself  needlessly  alarmed, 
indicating  the  still  prostrate  Charles  with  one  foot.  "  Such 
a  bang,  such  a  row,  I  thought " 

"What — what  is  it?  ...  Oh,  mother,  how  it  startled 
me!  I  was  asleep."  Lily  dropped  one  hand  from  the  door 
and  drew  the  sleeve  of  her  nightgown  across  her  mouth.  "  Oh 
mother,  look,  look!  Blood  again!  Oh,  mother,  mother! 
And  I  was  better,  I  was  sleeping;  and  now — now  .  .  ."  Her 
voice  broke  as  a  sudden  flood  of  tears  ran  down  her  face,  a 
sort  of  ague  shaking  her  from  head  to  foot.  "Oh,  mother, 
mother!"  She  drew  back  her  arm,  with  the  stained  sleeve, 
gazing  at  it  in  horror. 

Mrs.  Grobo  drew  herself  upright  painfully,  as  though 
pulling  against  something  which  held  her,  bent  double,  and 
pushed  the  basket  forward  to  the  center  of  the  table.  "  Noth- 
ing, nothing  .  .  .  No,  not  that.  No,  no!  Nothing,  I  tell 
you.  Charles  fell  off  the  chair,  that's  all — that's  .  .  ."  She 
broke  off,  pressing  both  hands  to  her  ears.  The  baby  in  the 
inner  room  had  awoken,  and  missing  the  warmth  of  its 
sister's  body,  added  its  quota  to  the  general  clamour;  for 
Charles  raising  his  head  a  little,  glancing  sideways  and 
upwards  had  realised  that  no  one  was  noticing  him,  and 


LAURA  CREICHTON  231 

broke  into   fresh  howls,   determined  to   attract   attention  to 
himself. 

"  Anyhow,  you've  got  it  safe,"  said  Albert,  speaking  loudly 
in  his  effort  at  self-assertion,  stretched  out  his  hand  towards 
the  basket.  "  I'll  take  it  upstairs,  out  of  the  way,  now." 

"No,  no.  No,  I  say!  It's  too  heavy;  you  might  drop 
it."  Mrs.  Grobo  glanced  round  as  though  in  distraction;  the 
table  against  which  she  was  leaning,  heavy  as  it  was,  shook. 

"  Mother — oh,  mother ! "  reiterated  Lily.  "  Don't  you 
see?  Oh,  don't  you  see?" 

"Yes,  yes.  Yes,  my  darling."  For  the  first  time,  as  it 
seemed,  Mrs.  Grobo's  conscious  glance  fell  upon  Laura. 

"Laura,  take  Lily  to  bed  for  me;  see  to  her.  .  .  .  Yes, 
yes,  my  darling,  I  will  come  in  a  minute.  I  must  get  off  my 
wet  things;  I'd  chill  you  if  I  touched  you  now.  Joseph,  take 
Charles  with  you,  and  the  others.  .  .  .  Laura,  give  her  some 
of  her  mixture;  and  hot  water — she  must  have  a  hot- water 
bottle.  In  a  moment,  my  precious;  in  a  moment." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  will  see  to  her.  Get  your  wet  things  off." 
Laura,  who  was  pulling  on  her  gloves,  feeling  that  she  ought  to 
go.  and  yet  too  bewildered  to  make  any  definite  move,  relieved 
to  find  herself  of  some  use,  put  an  arm  round  Lily  and  drew 
her  off  to  bed,  gave  her  her  mixture;  then  filled  a  hot- water 
bottle  and,  wrapping  her  round  in  the  blankets,  laid  it  at  her 
side,  for  she  was  shivering  from  head  to  foot. 

Going  back  into  the  living-room  for  boiling  water,  she 
found  it  empty,  though  there  was  the  sound  of  movement  in 
the  attic  overhead. 

Careful  not  to  use  all  the  hot  water,  for  she  had  promised 
Lily  a  cup  of  tea,  she  petted  the  baby  off  to  sleep,  made  sure 
that  the  haemorrhage  had  really  ceased  and  that  Lily  was  as 
comfortable  as  she  could  make  her,  then,  returned  to  the 
kitchen,  set  out  the  cups  and  teapot,  feeling  more  at  home  and 
sure  of  herself.  For,  whatever  had  happened,  might  have 
happened,  or  was  going  to  happen,  there  was  no  reason  for 
them  all  to  die  of  cold,  and  there  was  nothing  more  reviving 
than  a  hot  drink — or  so  she  told  herself,  finding  some  comfort 
in  that  direct  objective  of  waiting  until  the  kettle  boiled. 
For,  in  crises  of  this  sort,  in  all  the  joys  and  difficulties,  the 
disturbing  excitements  of  her  new  life,  it  seemed  as  though  she 
braced  herself  by  a  tight  hold  upon  the  practical,  as  a  man 
might  brace  himself  with  outstretched  feet,  his  back  against  a 
wall. 
She  had  taken  Lily  her  cup,  and  carried  a  well-sweetened 


232  LAURA  CREICHTON 

portion  along  the  passage  to  Joseph,  was  coming  back  with  his 
wet  shoes  and  stockings  in  her  hand,  when  Mrs.  Grobo  clam- 
bered heavily  down  the  attic  stairs,  and  falling  into  a  chair  by 
the  fire,  laid  her  head  sideways  against  the  jamb  of  the  mantel- 
shelf, her  face  grey  with  exhaustion,  her  wet  clothes  clinging 
to  her,  steaming  in  the  heat. 

Handing  her  a  cup  of  tea,  Laura  dropped  to  her  knees  and, 
regardless  of  her  protests,  undid  her  boots  and  drew  them  off; 
peeled  away  the  sodden  woollen  stockings. 

Albert,  standing  by,  sniggered,  ashamed  of  his  display  of 
panic,  anxious  to  reassert  himself:  "The  General's  daughter!" 
he  said.  "Only  look  at  the  General's  daughter!" 

"  Be  quiet,  and  get  me  your  mother's  slippers.  Now,  make 
haste  about  it!"  Laura,  at  the  end  of  her  patience  with  the 
odious  boy,  turned  upon  him  so  sharply  that  he  made  a  feint 
of  starting  back  as  though  afraid  she  was  about  to  strike  him, 
grinning  derisively,  and  yet  obeying  her  command,  as  he 
inevitably  did  do;  bolstering  up  his  pride  with  some  silly 
gibe  about  "  the  warlike  daughter  of  the  General,  and  the 
son  of  the  proletariat." 

"I  must  go  and  see  Lily,"  said  Mrs.  Grobo,  glancing 
towards  the  door  of  the  bedroom,  and  yet  without  altering  her 
position,  as  though  the  effort  of  movement  was  beyond  her; 
the  drag  of  intense  fatigue  in  her  voice,  her  cup  of  tea  untasted 
in  her  hand. 

"You  must  drink  your  tea  first,  dear  Mrs.  Grobo;  and 
then  go  straight  to  bed.  You're  wet  through."  Laura  rose 
to  her  feet  and  pulled  on  her  coat,  which  she  had  taken  off  so 
as  to  move  about  more  freely.  "Can  I  trust  you?  I  wonder 
if  I  can  trust  you  if  I  go?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  promise.  My  dear,  what  a  mother  you  would 
make!"  Mrs.  Grobo  began  to  sip  her  tea,  then  paused, 
gazing  at  Laura  over  the  top  of  her  cup,  her  dark,  melancholy 
eyes  seeming  larger  than  usual,  with  the  dark  circles;  more 
withdrawn,  veiling  rather  than  betraying,  a  soul  tender  and 
motherly,  and  yet,  to  the  mind  of  the  English  girl,  profoundly 
obscure,  manifestly  unchangeable  in  some  mysterious  purpose. 
"  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do  without  you,  Laura,"  she  added, 
as  though  scarcely  realising  what  she  said. 

Laura,  turned,  staring.  "How  do  you  know?  That's 
what  I  came  about.  Oh,  Mrs.  Grobo,  I  don't  want  to  go — I 
can't  go!  Of  course  you'll  see  I  can't.  It's  ridiculous!" 

"  You  must  go,  if  your  husband  wishes  it."  The  elder 
woman's  voice  was  suddenly  cold. 


LAURA  CREICHTON  233 

"I  don't  know  that  he  wishes  it.  How  can  I  know? 
Things  are  no  worse  than  they  were;  we  shall  manage,"  cried 
Laura,  half-wildly,  more  bewildered  than  ever. 

"  You  must  do  what  he  says."  Mrs.  Grobo  rose  stiffly,  and 
placing  her  cup  on  the  table  beside  the  now  empty  basket, 
stood  silent,  as  though  everything  had  been  said  that  could  be 
said. 

"Perhaps  Mr.  Grobo  thought — perhaps  he  tried  to  per- 
suade Paul,  thinking  it  would  be  best.  But  how  can  I  go? 
If  I  go  now — oh,  if  I  go  now  .  .  ."  She  broke  off  in  despair, 
pvercome  by  the  feeling  that,  really  and  truly,  if  she  did  go 
now,  leave  her  husband,  return  to  her  own  people,  that  would 
be  the  end  of  everything;  unable  to  express  her  feelings  in 
the  face  of  the  coldness  of  the  woman  whom  she  had  so  counted 
upon.  "  Oh,  well,  I'm  keeping  you.  You  must  get  to  bed. 
And  Paul  .  .  ."  She  turned,  blinded  with  tears,  fumbled 
for  the  handle  of  the  door,  and  opened  it. 

Mrs.  Grobo's  voice  followed  her.  "You  must  take  the 
umbrella;  it  may  be  raining  still,"  she  said. 

But  Laura  did  not  turn  or  answer  her. 

As  she  was  opening  the  passage  door,  Albert  ran  after  her, 
thrust  the  umbrella  into  her  hand. 

"Silly!  What's  the  good  of  being  in  a  paddy?  You 
women  have  got  to  learn  to  do  as  you're  told,"  he  said: 
then,  seeing  that  she  took  the  umbrella  mechanically,  without 
seeming  to  know  what  to  do  with  it,  he  followed  her  down- 
stairs, took  it  from  her  hand  again,  opened  it  for  her  at 
the  entrance  with  an  awkward: 

"All  right — don't  you  worry.  I'll  keep  an  eye  on  Vor- 
tonitch  for  you.  And  you're  best  out  of  it — General's 
daughter  and  all  that!" 

He  fell  back;  then,  as  she  blundered  forward,  with  the 
open  umbrella  dipping  forward  in  front  of  her,  darted  across 
the  pavement  to  her  side,  and  drew  her  back,  while  a  taxi 
pulled  up,  hooting,  not  a  yard  in  front  of  her. 

"Ah,  now!  Teh,  tch!  can't  you  look  where  you're 
going?  What!  trembling — trembling!  Frightened,  eh?" 
He  gripped  her  arm  with  his  bony  fingers,  his  head  below  the 
level  of  her  shoulders,  laughing  patronisingly.  "A  nice 
General's  daughter,  you!" 

"I'm  not  the  only  one  to  be  afraid,"  retorted  Laura, 
trying  to  shake  him  off. 

"  Oh,  well,  there  was  something  to  be  afraid  of — you  don't 
know  ...  by  Jove,  if  you  knew!"  His  voice  broke  in  a 


234  LAURA  CREICHTON 

long  whistle.  "A  taxi — what's  that?  Oh,  well,  I  suppose 
I'd  better  see  you  to  your  own  door,  or  Vortonitch  will  be 
after  me.  Stein's  right — there's  little  enough  to  choose 
between  a  wife  and  children.  Even  my  mother — putting  the 
basket  right  at  the  edge  of  the  table,  where  the  kid  could  get 
at  it — and  then,  such  a  fuss!" 

"  Oh,  well,"  Laura  spoke  vaguely,  without  thinking  what 
she  was  saying.  "  Jam  and  stuff  like  that's  worth  money  now, 
and  once  the  jars  are  broken " 

"Jam?  Jam — eh,  what?"  Albert  gave  a  short  laugh. 
"Yes,  yes,  you  are  right  there,  my  dear." 

There  was  something  maddeningly  tantalising  in  his 
words,  and  for  a  moment  Laura,  standing  on  the  steps  of  her 
own  doorway,  felt  impelled  to  question  him,  but  her  pride 
prevailed.  It  was  no  business  of  hers  what  went  on  at  the 
Grobos'  and  as  to  this  business  of  going  home — that  was  her 
affair,  hers  and  her  husband's.  She  would  ask  no  more 
advice  from  anyone. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

A  WEEK  later,  Laura  was  at  home,  The  changes  which  we 
have  regarded  as  impossible  happen;  the  upheavals,  the  losses, 
the  readjustments  for  which  we  have  at  least,  and  des- 
perately, demanded  time,  come  to  pass  all  in  a  moment,  and 
with  surprise  we  find  ourselves  still  alive;  while,  after  a 
while,  if  we  are  still  sufficiently  young,  we  begin,  regretfully 
and  jealously  enough — feeling  half  disgraced  by  our  in- 
constancy to  sorrow,  our  divergence  from  the  dignity  of  that 
king  who  never  smiled  again — to  savour  life  afresh. 

There  was  no  great  scene  of  reconciliation  between 
Laura  and  her  family:  the  Creichtons  were  not  the  sort  of 
people  for  that.  The  whole  thing  was  arranged  through  the 
mediation  of  Gerald  Stratton.  What  Sir  Harry  said  was: 
"She  can  come  home  if  she  likes;  but  while  she  is  at 
home  there's  to  be  no  carrying  on  with  that  fellow.  Nobody 
knows  that  she  is  married,  or  says  she's  married;  we've  been 
able  to  keep  that  quiet,  anyhow.  She'll  come  back  as  she 
was,  as  Miss  Creichton.  She'll  not  see  or  write  to  that  chap 
for  six  months;  at  the  end  of  that  time,  if  he  has  not  dis- 
appeared or  married  someone  else,  she  can  be  re-married 
decently,  in  church." 

Here  was  the  old  family  habit  of  arranging:  the  General 
arranging  himself,  arranging  his  female  belongings,  as  ostriches 
in  the  sand;  the  only  difference  between  himself  and  his  wife 
being  that  she  knew  what  they  were  playing  at,  and  he  did 
not. 

No  one  was  found  with  the  temerity  to  say  to  him,  "So 
we  hear  Laura  has  run  away  and  got  married."  That  was 
impossible  in  the  face  of  his  stand-and-deliver  assertion  that 
Laura  was  in  Switzerland,  finishing  off  her  education — 
"  Winter  sports,  all  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know — and  I 
dare  you  to  contradict  me!"  He  was  almost  threatening 
upon  this  point;  but  he  was  also  pitiable.  Behind  his  cold 
and  arid  stare  there  was  something  of  the  scared  look  of  a 
child  who  is  "  braving  it  out."  Sometimes  it  seemed  to  his 
wife  that  he  had  really  begun  to  believe  that  Laura  was  in 

235 


236  LAURA  CREICHTON 

Switzerland:  a  state  of  affairs  so  much  more  creditable  than 
the  fact  of  mutiny  and  desertion  among  his  own  special  body- 
guard. 

However,  and  for  whatever  reason — likely  enough,  many 
reasons — the  fact  remained  that  while  everyone  in  Blackheath 
knew  that  Laura  Creichton  had  run  away  with  a  foreigner,  and 
was  living  maybe  in  sin,  certainly  in  a  state  of  poverty  but 
little  less  disgraceful,  no  one  ventured  to  display  their  know- 
ledge to  the  elder  members  of  the  family;  for,  discursive  a? 
Lady  Creichton  might  be,  she  had  held  her  reservations,  held  to 
them,  too,  and  made  them  felt. 

As  to  Charles,  the  son,  he  had  his  own  life,  apart  from  it 
all.  Laura  had  made  "  an  ass  of  herself."  Oh,  well,  she  was 
an  ass  to  do  it,  that  was  all — might  have  known  what  foreigners 
are.  Everyone  had  a  right  to  his  or  her  own  life,  but  mixing 
the  family  up  with  foreigners  who  did  not  wash,  in  any  sort 
of  way,  that  was  a  bit  too  thick. 

Home  on  his  vacation,  he  missed  his  sister,  as  he  had 
already  missed  her  letters;  had  vague  ideas  of  going  to  see 
her,  of  writing.  But,  somehow  or  other,  the  time  slipped 
away,  and  he  was  overcome  by  an  awkward  shyness  which  he 
would  not  have  confessed  to  for  worlds.  "  Laura  was  always 
a  bit  soft,"  he  said.  "Anyone  could  get  around  Laura";  and 
yet,  all  the  while,  there  was  at  the  back  of  his  mind  a  sort  of 
admiration  for,  a  wonder  at,  her  courage.  At  any  rate  he  was 
unapproachable  by  the  outside  world;  so  enveloped  in  that 
hard  crust  of  stiffness,  apparent  indifference,  or  masculine 
youth  that  no  one  so  much  as  thought  of  interrogating 
him. 

Marjorie,  of  all  the  family,  laid  herself  open  to  the  wariness 
and  humiliation  of  outside  discussion  and  questioning;  while 
it  was  Marjorie  alone,  the  arrogant  Marjorie,  who  had  lost  her 
head.  She  had  visions  of  Laura  murdered  by  foreigners: 
worse  still,  of  Laura  still  unmarried,  and  appearing  at  home 
with  a  baby,  disgracing  her.  She  made  Vortonitch  out  as 
being  utterly  impossible,  working  up  that  one  sight  she  had 
had  of  him  into  a  fine  picture  of  villainy;  for  with  Marjorie 
everything  must  to  too  dreadful,  or  too  wonderful.  So  long  as 
she  did  all  the  talking,  and  talk  she  must,  she  was  happy; 
when  she  found  that  people  took  advantage  of  her  talking  to 
question  her,  even  to  comment  upon  the  family  affairs,  she 
was  up  in  arms  at  once.  She  wished  that  she  had  never 
spoken  of  Laura;  she  almost  wished  that  Laura  had  never 
existed.  When  she  heard  that  she  was  coming  home,  she 


LAURA  CREICHTON  237 

resented  it.  "Setting  everyone  off  talking  again!" — that 
was  what  she  said. 

"  I  wasn't  aware  that  anyone  was  talking,"  answered 
Lady  Creichton  mildly.  "And  I  don't  like  anyone  standing 
and  speaking  to  me  with  their  back  turned  in  that  way." 
She  hesitated,  her  lips  moving,  glancing,  from  the  knitting  in 
her  hand  to  an  elaborate  illustration  with  printed  instructions 
propped  up  on  the  table  in  front  of  her.  "  When  I  was  young, 
I  was  taught  .  .  .  Four  plain,  and  then  two  purl " 

"  I  believe  you'd  go  on  like  that — knit,  knit,  knit — what- 
ever happened!"  cried  Marjorie  angrily. 

" — Not  to  turn  my  back,  let  alone  walk  up  and  down  the 
room  in  that  fashion — swinging  your  arms!"  went  on  her 
mother  calmly,  as  though  there  had  been  no  pause  whatever; 
for  she  was  no  longer  overridden  by  her  younger  daughter. 
It  was  difficult  to  say  why  the  fact  of  Laura  having  taken  the 
law  so  completely  into  her  own  hands  had  given  her  courage, 
but  it  had  done.  Her  very  heartache,  her  incessant  longing 
for  her  elder  daughter's  presence,  had  strengthened  her.  In 
some  way  it  engrossed  her  so  that  she  had  little  thought  for 
anything  else;  but  there  was  more  to  it  than  this.  If  one 
can  imagine  a  tree  already  a  trifle  broken  by  time — verging 
upon  a  state  of  .dry-rot,  never  very  luscious  or  vigorous, 
cramped  in  growth,  cut  back  to  meet  the  requirements  of  its 
owner — sending  out  an  exceptionally  strong  and  far-spreading 
shoot,  bearing  strange  blossoms — a  "  sport "  of  a  shoot — 
and  feeling  proud  of  it,  one  may  get  at  something  of  Lady 
Creichton's  mind. 

"  It's  all  very  well  for  you,"  grumbled  Marjorie;  "people 
don't  say  things  to  you." 

"I  wouldn't  allow  them  to  think  of  doing  so, — Marjorie, 
I  thought  if  I  put  a  yellow  border  to  this  grey,  of  course  a 
very  pale  yellow  .  .  .  Oh,  my  dear,  I  forgot  to  tell  Parker 
Captain  Markham  and  Mr.  Jackson  are  dining  here  to-night — 
will  you?  I  don't  know  what's  happened;  I've  somehow 
gone  wrong,  just  there;  there  ought  to  be  five  of  those  little 
square  things,  and  there's  only  four." 

"To-night! — and  Laura  coming  home!" 

"  I  believe  I  shall  have  to  undo  to  there — no,  to  there — 
no.  Now,  I  wonder  .  .  ."  Lady  Creichton  hesitated,  one 
pointed  finger  hovering  over  the  squares  forming  the  elaborate 
pattern  of  her  work. 

"  Oh,  well,  I  suppose  she  won't  put  in  an  appearance." 

"Who?" 


238  LAURA  CREICHTON 

"Laura,  of  course." 

"In  her  own  home?"  Lady  Creichton's  lips  tightened. 
"Why  should  she  not  'put  in  an  appearance,'  as  you  say?" 

"Why,  good  Lord!  just  imagine  what  people  will  think!" 
Marjorie's  face  was  flushed;  she  stood  in  her  most  awkward 
attitude,  her  hands  behind  her  back,  her  body  thrust  forward. 

"  One  can't  afford  to  show  that  one  thinks  of  what  people 
think  .  .  .  Oh,  it's  there;  I  see  now!  I  missed  four  stitches 
there,  and  it's  thrown  the  whole  thing  out.  Dear,  dear,  dear, 
isn't  that  tiresome! — Don't  forget  to  tell  Parker,  my  dear: 
and  you  might  ask  her  to  bring  tea,  and  plenty  of  hot  buttered 
toast." 

"  Well,  I  shan't  come  down,  anyhow." 

"Down  where?  Marjorie,  you  really  must  have  your 
dresses  longer,  now." 

"  Down  to  dinner,  of  course." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  daresay  no  one  will  notice — not  being  out, 
and  all." 

Marjorie  was  furious;  she  was  at  a  disadvantage,  and  she 
realised  it.  Somehow  or  other,  it  was  impossible  to  say  why, 
she  had  felt  herself  at  a  disadvantage  ever  since  Laura  had 
disgraced  them  by  running  away  with  a  beastly  foreigner. 
Even  her  father  would  not  discuss  it  with  her,  shut  her  out 
from  it  all,  so  that  she  seemed  to  have  lost  her  ascendancy 
over  him;  also,  one  might  say,  for  it  was  intangible  and  yet 
completely  gone,  so  far  as  her  mother  was  concerned.  AJid 
yet,  in  some  vague  way,  she  found  herself  growing  in  respect 
for  the  much-despised  "last  generation."  "My  word!  but 
they  could  keep  things  to  themselves  if  they  wanted  to!" 
Only  imagine  anyone  daring  to  say  to  Lady  Creichton,  "Well, 
how's  Laura  and  her  organ-grinder?"  or  tittering  inanely, 
"I  suppose  she'll  have  a  monkey  in  a  red  jacket  instead  of  a 
baby!"  like  a  friend  of  her  own  to  whom  she  had  run  with  a 
tale  of  "that  ass  Laura,  bolting  with  a  man  like  an  organ- 
grinder  ! " 

Even  the  servants  talked  to  her,  questioned  her;  and  her 
cheeks  burned  at  the  thought  of  having  herself  started  it  all; 
at  the  way  in  which  they  reminded  her  of  what  she  herself 
had  said. 

"  One  thing's  certain,  f ather'll  never  let  her  come  home 
again.  Oh,  I  know  him!"  she  had  declared;  and  then 
accusing  the  under-housemaid  of  wearing  her  sister's  stock- 
ings, flown  into  a  rage  at  the  impertinence  of  the  retort: 
"  If  she's  never  coming  home  again,  what's  the  good  of  letting 


LAURA  CREICHTON  23* 

them  rot  there?     Dozens  of  pairs — an'  things  the  price  they 
are." 

Now,  with  Laura  returning,  "  What  are  we  to  call  her?" 
they  asked  mockingly.  "Oh,  if  she  is  still  Miss  Creichton! 
What  'ud  be  said  of  the  likes  of  us?"  etc.  Marjorie  was  filled 
with  discomfort  and  shame  and  rage  beyond  words;  and  yet 
she  had  only  herself  to  blame,  not  for  their  talk,  but  for  their 
daring  to  talk  to  her. 

She  determined  to  remain  in  her  own  room  when  Laura 
arrived.  But  when  the  motor  drew  up  at  the  door — for  Strat- 
ton  had  fetched  her  and  brought  her  home — Marjorie's  feelings 
were  too  much  for  her,  and  she  ran  downstairs,  was  the  first 
to  greet  her  sister,  draw  her  into  the  hall,  hug  her,  whispering: 

"Laura,  I  say,  good  old  Laura!"  She  was  half -crying. 
"Why,  she's  nothing  but  a  bag  of  bones!  I  believe  she'd 
break  if  I  squeezed  her  too  tight,"  she  declared  aloud;  then 
began  again:  "My  word!  if  that's  what  comes  of  being 
married!"  and  broke  off  confusedly.  Whatever  was  going 
to  happen,  and  her  mind  was  extraordinarily  set  upon  this 
point,  Laura  was  not  going  to  have  a  baby:  like  a  stick!  so 
thin,  so  straight  up  and  down;  and  like  a  stick  in  other  ways 
also;  so  stiff,  so  restrained. 

"No,  no,  I  won't  come  in  now,"  Gerald  Stratton  was 
answering  their  mother's  calm  invitation  to  tea. 

"But  of  course!  What  nonsense!"  Lady  Creichton  had 
kissed  her  elder  daughter,  clung  to  her  for  one  moment.  "  Well, 
Laura!"  then  added:  "The  dish  with  the  hot  toast's  in  the 
fender — I've  got  a  new  pattern  for  a  border,  but  it's  so 
elaborate,  it's  gone  wrong  somehow.  You'll  have  to  help  me." 

That  was  all — that  was  amazingly  all;  and  from  people 
who  were  so  ready  to  work  themselves  up  over  trifles. 

Sir  Harry  Creichton  came  in,  and  kissed  his  elder  daughter, 
with  a  "Well,  Laura!"  then  turned  to  Gerald  Stratton, 
enquiring  whether  he  had  seen  an  evening  paper,  and  whether 
there  was  any  fresh  news  from  Ireland. 

Laura  drank  her  tea  and  ate  her  toast — so  there  was  the 
reason  of  that  order  for  an  extra  lavish  supply  of  toast; 
Laura  had  always  loved  hot  buttered  toast.  Marjorie's  sharp 
eyes  raked  her  mercilessly,  and  yet  not  unkindly.  She  was 
not  only  thin,  she  was  dreadfully  shabby;  looked  as  though 
she  had  not  enough  clothes  on  her:  no  furs,  a  quite  hopeless 
coat  and  skirt.  She  wore  no  ring,  but  there  was  a  white  line 
round  the  base  of  the  third  finger  of  her  left  hand. 

She  had  wept  over  this:  it  was  the  one  occasion  upon 


240  LAURA  CREICHTON 

which  she  had  made  Gerald  Stratton's  delicate  task  more 
difficult  for  him,  lost  her  self-control.  She  would  not  promise 
not  to  write  to  her  husband,  but  she  would  promise  not  to  see 
him  without  telling  her  parents;  not  to  tell  anyone  that  she 
was  married,  to  take  up  her  old  place:  "Just  for  six  months, 
only  for  six  months — or  I  couldn't  bear  it."  But  that  question 
of  removing  her  ring — she  baulked  at  that! 

Vortonitch  was  to  go  to  Bournemouth  for  a  fortnight  to 
recoup;  she  had  been  down  and  chosen  his  rooms  for  him, 
spoken  to  his  landlady  about  his  meals  .  .  .  Oh  yes,  she  had 
accepted  money  from  Stratton  for  this,  though  she  would  not 
take  a  penny  to  fit  herself  out  afresh.  When  Vortonitch 
returned  from  the  sea,  he  was  going  into  one  room  to  work: 
she  had  chosen  that  also.  She  was  so  engrossed  in  arranging 
for  her  husband's  comfort  that  the  possible  difficulties  which 
awaited  herself  sank  into  nothingness. 

As  for  Vortonitch  himself,  no  one  could  say  that  he  was  of 
the  butterfly  type,  and  yet  to  Stratton's  mind  there  was 
something  in  him  of  the  butterfly;  or  was  it,  could  it  be, 
the  hawk?  Come  to  think  of  it,  they  both  had  the  same 
ways,  hovering,  with  quivering  wings — something  bright  and 
hard,  some  quality  not  altogether  human,  which  it  was 
impossible  to  take  hold  of.  Outwardly  he  alternated  between 
self-pity,  the  pose  of  the  deserted  husband,  the  failure,  the 
bright,  unselfish  being,  and  the  devoted  lover;  but  at  the 
back  of  it  all  there  was  a  sort  of  joyous  excitement,  something 
of  the  air  of  a  child  mad  to  be  free  from  the  deadening  in- 
fluence of  grown-ups. 

And  yet  he  loved  Laura;  at  the  last  moment  how  he 
clung  to  her,  desperately;  feeling  that  with  her  he  was 
losing  the  best  of  his  life.  For  despite  all  that  irresponsible 
youthfulness  which  still  clung  to  him,  he  realised,  as  only  a 
mature,  almost  middle-aged  man  could  realise,  that  nothing 
would  ever  be  the  same  again;  that  he  had  eaten  his  cake 
once  and  for  all. 

It  was  on  the  way  down  to  Blackheath  that  Stratton  had 
though  of  Laura's  wedding-ring,  spoken  of  it;  realising  that 
she  would  bear  it  better  from  him  than  from  anybody  else; 
because,  in  some  ways,  he  had  known  her  and  her  husband's 
life  together,  as  well  as  anyone  could  know  it. 

"  Lolly,  I  think  you'll  have  to  take  that  off." 

"What?"  She  turned  with  wide  eyes,  a  quick  breath, 
asking  the  question  and  yet,  at  the  same  moment,  covering  her 
left  hand  with  her  right. — "  The  child,  oh  the  child ! "  thought 


LAURA  CREICHTON  241 

Stratton.  How  strange  it  was  that  with  her  husband  she 
should  show  herself  so  maternal,  and  yet  with  him  "just 
Lolly,"  the  old  Lolly,  changed  in  nothing  apart  from  her 
appearance,  and  yet,  even  that — why,  it  might  be  nothing 
more  than  the  effect  of  a  long  illness.  With  a  sense  of  happi- 
ness, of  hope,  to  which  he  had  been  a  stranger  for  many 
months,  the  possibility  that  this  was,  after  all,  what  it  might 
be,  came  to  him:  this  infatuation  of  Laura's,  this  mess  into 
which  she  had  got  herself;  dangerous,  mysterious,  and  deep- 
seated,  and  yet,  after  all,  an  illness  and  not  a  death — th?' 
death  in  life  involved  in  so  many  marriages — for  surely  i 
would  not  be  impossible  to  dissolve  a  union  such  as  this. 

Strange  how  many  and  far-reaching  thoughts  can  flash 
through  the  mind  in  a  moment.  All  this,  and  yet  there  was 
scarcely  a  pause  between  Laura's  question — in  reality,  no 
question — and  his  own  answer.  "Your  wedding-ring.  You 
see,  my  dear,  it  will  be  better  not  to  begin  by  making 
difficulties." 

"To  take  it  off — not  to  wear  it,  you  mean?" 

"Yes." 

"I  can't!  Oh,  Stratty,  don't  you  see  that  I  can't?  It 
means  everything.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  can't!" 

"  You  could  hang  it  round  your  neck,  Lolly.  I'll  send  you 
a  long  fine  chain.  You  need  never  be  parted  from  it.  Dear, 
I  do  think  you  owe  it  to  them.  They've  behaved  very  well." 

"  They  left  me  alone,  they  never  even  wrote."  The  words 
were  so  unjust,  so  unlike  Laura,  that  they  rebounded,  striking 
herself.  "  Oh,  I  know  I  had  no  right  to  expect  it,  but — 
Stratty,  how  I  used  to  watch  the  post;  how  I  used  to  listen 
and  watch  for  them!  And  then  .  .  .  You  know  I  was  happy, 
you  know  how  happy  I  was,  Stratty  .  .  .  when  there  was 
nothing,  there  seemed  nothing  left  to  do;  nothing  worth 
doing." 

"  I  don't  think  they  understood  that.  I  know  they 
didn't.  Why,  I  didn't.  I  used  to  wonder  if  you  ever  though! 
of  them.  Don't  you  remember,  we  spoke  of  it?" 

"That  was  only  at  first." 

"I  know;  but  how  could  you  expect  them  to  know? 
Directly  you  wrote,  directly  1  spoke  oi  your  coming  home, 
they  were  ready  to  meet  you  iiaii-\vay.  Laura,  you  know  what 
they  are;  you  know  what  anything  like  pretence  or  secrecy 
must  mean  to  people  of  that  sort.  Don't  make  it  more 
difficult." 

"Why  not  say  straight  out  that  I  am  married?" 


242  LAURA  CREICHTON 

"I  think  that  would  make  it  more  difficult  for  you,  too; 
putting  the  whole  thing  into  words,  giving  everyone  a  chance 
of  asking  how  and  when;  and  why  your  husband  isn't  there, 
why  you're  not  with  him." 

"He  might  be  in  India,"  said  Laura  forlornly.  "So 
many  husbands  are  in  India." 

"Oh,  my  dear,  they  know  better  than  that."  Stratton 
gave  a  little  laugh.  "  I  expect,  if  the  truth  were  told,  they 
know  everything — people  always  do.  The  only  thing  is,  by 
our  pretending,  to  force  them  into  pretending  that  they  know 
nothing." 

"What's  the  good  of  it  all?" 

"  Don't  you  see,  they  daren't  question  you,  or  your  people. 
The  same  sort  of  thing  goes  on  everywhere,  in  everything; 
it's  the  one  protection  of  what  we  call  our  privacy." 

"Oh!"  cried  Laura.  "But  you  know,  Stratty,  you 
know!  You  might  think  of  a  thing  of  that  sort,  but  not  them. 
You  know — oh,  you  know  what  they  think,  mother  and  dad. 
That  I'd  give  it  up  because  it's  a  failure;  that  I  don't  really 
care;  that  in  the  end  they'll  'pretend'  me  out  of  being 
married.  I  know — I  know;  they've  always  been  like  that. 
They  think  if  they  don't  mention  a  thing  that  it  ceases  to 
exist.  But  nothing  can  alter  it — nothing — nothing!"  She 
turned  to  him  wildly,  the  tears  raining  down  her  face,  her  left 
hand  still  enfolded.  Her  plain  little  black  felt  hat  was  pushed 
on  one  side,  her  hair,  with  none  of  the  old  spring  left  in  it, 
drooped  untidily  round  her  ears;  for  she  had  flung  on  her 
things  anyhow;  her  cheap  serge  coat  fitted  so  badly  that  it 
rounded  out  upon  either  shoulder,  showing  the  hollows  in  her 
neck;  her  face  was  white,  her  nose  red  with  the  cold,  for  it 
was  a  bitter,  dank  day,  with  the  threatening  of  a  yellow  fog. 
At  that  moment  she  was  as  plain  as  plain  could  be,  and  yet 
Stratton,  one  of  the  most  eligible  bachelors  in  London,  would 
have  given  all  that  he  possessed  in  the  world  to  have  taken  her 
in  his  arms,  passionately.  In  place  of  this,  he  played  the 
heavy,  patient  father. 

"We  know  all  that,  Lolly,  you  and  I?  and  I  don't  think 
that  there's  ever  any  reason  to  fight  about  what  we  know,  do 
you?"  he  said  quietly. 

She  pulled  herself  together  at  this,  with  a  strangely  forlorn 
shake  of  her  head.  By  that  time  they  were  rattling  over  the 
cobblestones  of  Deptf  ord  Broadway,  and,  putting  the  speaking- 
tube  to  his  mouth,  Stratton  told  his  chauffeur  to  stop;  then, 


LAURA  CREICHTON  243 

getting  out,  disappeared  into  a  small  jeweller's  shop;  emerged 
from  that,  shaking  his  head,  and  entered  a  draper's,  from 
which  he  bought  a  length  of  narrow  black  ribbon. 

"They  had  no  chain  long  enough,  worth  anything,"  he 
said;  "but  I'll  send  you  one  to-morrow.  Now " 

Laura  had  already  taken  off  her  ring,  and  running  it  onto 
the  ribbon,  Stratton  hung  it  round  her  neck,  where  it  dipped 
away  out  of  sight. 

Of  course  Marjorie's  eyes  were  on  the  ribbon;  and  the 
first  moment  they  were  alone  together  she  questioned  her 
sister  about  it:  "What's  that?  Have  you  got  something 
hung  on  it?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Laura,  and  turned  away.  After  all,  if* 
it  was  to  be  a  secret,  it  should  be  a  real  secret;  and  no  one 
should  be  allowed  to  question  her,  not  even — oh,  above  all! — 
Marjorie. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE  promised  chain  arrived  next  morning,  the  finest  gold 
links,  replacing  the  ribbon,  and  far  less  conspicuous;  com- 
forting Laura  with  its  tacit  acknowledgment  that  someone 
was  thinking  of  her,  modifying  the  dull  flatness  of  that  first 
day,  when  it  was  so  difficult  to  realise  what  she  had  ever 
found  to  do  with  herself. 

There  was  no  letter  from  Vortonitch,  and  of  course  she 
was  a  silly  to  have  expected  it,  when  she  had  only  left  him 
latish  the  afternoon  before. 

But  there  was  still  no  letter  next  day,  by  any  single  one 
of  the  posts  which  hung  like  beads  upon  her  string  of  thought; 
or  the  day  after  that,  or  the  day  after  that  either;  nothing 
whatever  for  ten  days;  and  even  then  nothing  from  Vor- 
tonitch himself,  but  a  heartbroken  note  from  Mrs.  Grobo,  to 
say  that  Lily  was  dying,  and  begging  to  see  her. 

Laura  showed  the  letter  to  her  father,  and  he  raised  no 
special  objection  to  her  going,  though  he  was  plainly  con- 
cerned over  what  he  regarded  as  the  thin  end  of  a  wedge. 
Still,  if  the  child  was  really  dying,  he  was  too  much  of  a 
gentleman,  too  humane,  to  attempt  to  stand  between  her  and 
her  last  wish.  Only,  as  he  said  to  Laura :  "  Remember,  you 
can't  live  in  two  worlds;  it's  got  to  be  one  thing  or  another." 

"Two  worlds!"  Could  there  have  been  more  completely 
two  worlds?  People  have  a  way  of  arguing  that  life  upon  the 
other  planets  is  impossible  because  the  conditions  are  so 
different,  with  no  conception  of  the  diversity  in  conditions 
upon  this  earth,  scarcely  a  stone's-throw  away. 

The  Grobos'  flat  seemed  more  crowded  than  ever,  and 
hopelessly  untidy,  which  it  had  never  been  before.  At  "The 
House "  illness  had  appeared  as,  mainly,  an  affair  of  trays, 
very  white  tray-cloths  and  napkins,  shining  silver  and  glass, 
and  something  particularly  tempting  in  the  way  of  soup  in 
special  little  bowls  with  lids;  jelly  or  eggs,  extra  thin  toast  in 
a  tiny  rack;  and  eau-de-Cologne  in  the  water  in  which  one 
was  washed. 

It  was  not  like  this  at  the  Grobos':  the  haemorrhage  was 
244 


LAURA  CREICHTON  245 

almost  constant  by  now,  and  Lily  was  dying  in  an  atmosphere 
of  bloodstained  towels,  unmade  beds  and  unwashed  dishes, 
for  the  whole  family  was  overcome  by  a  sense  of  despair 
which  paralysed  all  outside  effort,  in  a  crowded  room,  with 
the  other  children  peering  in  through  the  door,  curious,  rest- 
less and  awe-stricken. 

The  letter  had  only  arrived  by  the  afternoon  post,  and  it 
was  five  o'clock  by  the  time  that  Laura  reached  the  flat. 
Albert,  with  his  bag  of  school-books,  overtook  her  going  up 

the  stairs,  and  she  caught  at  his  arm:  "Albert,  is  she ?" 

The  words  stuck  in  her  throat,  so  that  she  could  get  no  further. 

"I  don't  know — how  can  I  know?  Take  your  hand  off 
me.  Ah,  Stein's  right — it's  best  not  to  have  children.  All 
this  fuss!" 

His  face  was  drawn  and  twisted;  beneath  his  impatience 
was  suffering,  which,  in  place  of  melting  him,  burnt  like  a 
white  fire;  flaring  up  in  contemptuous  anger. 

Stein  himself  was  sitting  upon  the  top  step  of  the  stairs. 
"Ho,  ho!  What  have  we  here?  The  General's  daughter 
again!"  he  cried,  with  a  loud  laugh,  moving  a  little  on  one 
side  to  let  them  pass. 

"Aren't  you  coming  in?"  enquired  Albert. 

"I?  No,  thank  you — with  the  house  packed  tight  with 
squealers,"  he  answered.  "  I'm  here  because  .  .  .  Oh, 
well,  they  may  be  glad  of  someone  with  a  head  on  his 
shoulders." 

Joseph  opened  the  door.  He  was  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  his 
braces  hanging  loose;  his  white  face  smeared  with  tears  and 
the  marks  of  dirty  fingers :  "  She's  dying,"  he  said,  with  a 
gesture  of  utter  despair:  one  of  those  gestures  with  which 
every  member  of  the  family  seemed  capable  of  expressing  any 
shade  of  feeling. 

They  went  into  the  living-room,  where  Albert  slammed 
his  books  down  upon  the  table,  while  Charles — already  paler 
and  older,  as  it  seemed — winced  like  a  grown-up  person  ridden 
with  nerves:  "A-a-ah!" — then  ran  to  Laura,  and  hugged  her 
round  the  knees.  "Lily  is  dying — dying!  What  is  it,  this 
dying?  I'm  frightened!  I  want  my  tea — Laura  will  you  get 
me  my  tea  and  make  me  toast?" 

The  bedroom  door  was  open;  she  heard  Mrs.  Grobo's 
voice:  "Is  that  Laura?"  and  entering,  found  her  sitting  by 
the  bedside,  with  one  arm  under  Lily's  pillow,  supporting  her. 
Without  moving,  or  any  word  of  greeting,  she  glanced  up  for 
a  moment  and  shook  her  head,  slowly;  then  dropped  her  eyes 


246  LAURA  CREICHTON 

to  her  little  daughter's  face,  with  an  expression  of  intense  and 
hopeless  grief. 

A  tall,  unshaven  man,  wearing  a  greenish  overcoat,  who 
was  standing  by  the  bedside  as  Laura  entered,  moved  away, 
with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders,  and  picked  up  a  shabby  black 
bag  from  a  chair :  "  There's  nothing  more  I  can  do,"  he  said, 
putting  on  his  hat,  buttoning  his  shabby  coat  up  to  his  chin, 
and  staring  at  Laura.  "  If  you  send  for  me  when  it's  all — 
oh,  well,  later — I'll  give  you  a  certificate,"  he  added;  and 
then,  with  a  clumsy  bow  towards  the  newcomer,  left  the  room : 
stumbling  over  Cora's  wooden  horse  which  stood  beside  a 
pile  of  stained  linen. 

"But,  doctor  .  .  ."  Grobo  had  begun  to  speak,  from  his 
place  in  a  low  chair  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  bed  to  his  wife, 
and  then  broken  off  with  an  air  of  realising  that  there  was 
nothing  left  worth  saying.  He,  too,  was  in  his  shirt-sleeves, 
for  there  was  some  fire  of  passion  affecting  the  whole  of  this 
family,  so  that  in  times  of  emotion  or  excitement  they  were 
seized  with  a  desire  to  feel  themselves  as  unfettered  as  possible. 
For  all  her  steady  self-control,  habitual  calm,  Laura  had  seen 
Mrs.  Grobo  tear  off  her  cotton  gloves  and  throw  them  down  as 
though  they  constituted  some  sort  of  mingled  gage  and  fetter. 
Grobo's  eyes  were  red,  his  face  covered  with  yellow  bristles; 
his  whole  appearance  desolate  and  dreadfully  funny — like 
some  figure  upon  a  music-hall  stage. 

Lily  lay  almost  upright,  supported  by  her  mother's  arm, 
the  pillows,  and  chintz-covered  cushions  from  the  sofa.  The 
front  of  her  nightdress  was  open,  showing  that  she  was  nothing 
more  than  a  framework  of  bones.  Incongruously,  and  yet 
apropros  enough,  Laura  was  reminded  of  those  delicate  shreds 
of  ivory  with  which  an  old  lady  in  Blackheath  had  taught  her 
to  play  Spillikins.  Lily's  skin  was  white  and  fine  as  the  inner 
skin  of  an  eggshell;  her  yellow  plaits,  thicker  and  glossier 
than  ever,  as  if  they  had  sucked  the  life  from  her,  hung 
straight  each  side  of  her  face,  which  showed  a  scarlet  spot 
upon  either  cheek,  as  though  from  the  pressure  of  a  large 
thumb;  her  blue  eyes  were  glazed,  the  upper  lids  drooping  a 
little;  her  mouth  open  and  rounded,  the  lips,  cracked  and 
darkish  in  colour,  giving  vent  to  a  short,  harsh  and  broken 
breath.  There  was  a  thread  of  blood  at  one  corner  of  them, 
and  as  Mrs.  Grobo  raised  a  handkerchief,  with  a  little  groan, 
to  wipe  it  away,  the  child's  slow  gaze  settled  upon  the  new- 
comer. She  moved  her  lips  slightly,  and  though  no  words 
came,  Laura  realised  what  she  wanted,  and  moved  closer  to 


LAURA  CREICHTON  247 

the  bed.  Grobo  got  up  from  his  chair  and  stood  aside,  and 
she  dropped  to  her  knees. 

"Darling,  darling,  what  is  it?" 

There  was  a  moment's  silence;  then,  with  a  piteous 
struggle,  the  words  came  singly,  almost  inaudible. 

"  Paul — Paul — I — want — Paul .  You — must — must " 

There  was  no  more,  but  the  filmed  eyes  were  like  an  animal's, 
entreating,  intensely  eloquent.  "You  must  be  good  to  Paul — 
you  must  look  after  him,"  was  what  they  said. 

"Yes,  yes,  darling.     I  understand." 

There  were  no  further  words,  but  the  silence  was  loud  with 
the  child's  breathing;  louder  and  louder,  so  that  it  seemed  to 
tear  Laura's  own  breast.  It  vras  a  relief  when  the  baby,  on  a 
trestle  bed  in  the  corner,  began  to  cry,  fretfully.  "  She  is 
teething,"  said  Mrs.  Grobo,  and,  going  to  her,  sat  down  on  the 
edge  of  the  bed,  lifted  her  up  and  began  to  feed  her;  while 
Grobo  took  her  chair. 

Lily's  eyes  were  drooping.  Charles  and  Cora  appeared 
in  the  doorway  and  whimperingly  demanded  their  tea.  Laura 
rose  from  her  knees,  and  moving  into  the  inner  room,  found 
Albert  busy  with  his  lesson. 

"You  might  have  got  the  children  their  tea,"  she  began. 
"Really,  you  might  .  .  ."  then  broke  off;  for  as  he  bent 
lower,  muttering  angrily,  she  saw  that  the  tears  were  falling, 
sopping  his  books.  Joseph,  with  a  begrimed  face,  was  poking 
bits  of  stick  and  paper  into  the  grate,  already  choked  with 
charred  fragments.  "  It  goes  out — it  won't  light,"  he  said 
despairingly. 

"Leave  it,  leave  it,  you  fool!  Filling  the  room  with 
smoke!"  cried  Albert. 

"Yes,  leave  it;  I'll  see  to  it  in  a  moment,"  said  Laura; 
and  lighting  the  gas-ring,  set  the  kettle  on  to  boil  while  she  cut 
the  bread.  There  was  no  hope  of  toast,  and  the  two  younger 
children — usually  so  amenable — upset  by  the  general  turmoil, 
soaked  their  bread  and  jam  with  tears. 

"I  hate  everybody,"  cried  Cora.  "What  does  Lily  want 
to  die  for?  It's  horrid,  horrid!" 

Grobo  came  in  and  took  a  cup  of  tea,  standing,  gulping  it 
down.  "It's  dreadful!"  he  said.  "Oh,  dreadful,  dreadful! 
— past  all  bearing!" 

Laura  carried  a  cup  in  to  Mrs.  Grobo.  "  You  must  drink 
it,"  she  commanded.  "You  must;  you  will  need  all  your 
strength." 

The  poor  mother  took  the  cup,  pathetically  obedient,  and 


248  LAURA  CREICHTON 

put  her  lips  to  it.  But  her  throat  worked  so  that  she  could 
not  swallow,  and  she  handed  it  back,  shaking  her  head. 

Laura  took  it  almost  mechanically,  without  a  protest,  her 
eyes  upon  Lily,  terrified  by  the  change  in  her.  Her  breath 
was  coming  much  more  quickly;  it  was  like  a  toy  steam- 
engine.  All  the  expression  was  gone  from  her  face.  She  made 
a  faint  sign  with  her  hand,  and  her  whole  frame  shook.  As 
Laura  leant  towards  her  the  gaslight  wavered,  sank  low,  and 
rose  again. 

"Paul,"  panted  Lily.    Then:  "I— I 

With  a  sudden  flicker,  the  gas  went  out.  It  seemed  as 
though  the  sound  of  the  dying  child's  breath  cut  the  darkness 
like  a  file.  Albert's  voice  was  heard  at  the  door: 

"I've  no  pennies  for  the  meter,"  he  said. 

Laura  took  out  her  purse  and  fumbled  over  the  contents 
with  trembling  fingers:  there  were  a  few  small  coins,  shillings 
and  sixpences,  but  nothing  more. 

The  smaller  children  began  to  sob  from  out  the  well  of 
darkness. 

"Where  are  the  matches?  I  can't  find  the  matches. 
Oh-h-h!  where  did  you  put  the  matches?  The  matches!" 

Joseph  was  moving  round  the  living-room;  there  was  a 
crash  as  he  knocked  over  a  chair:  "Oh!  Oh!  has  no  one  any 
matches?" 

A  muffled  half -cry  came  from  the  bed;  a  louder  gasping 
breath,  followed  by  a  rattling  sound  which  filled  Laura  with 
terror:  her  heart  beat  loudly;  she  felt  as  though  her  body  had 
been  dipped  in  cold  water. 

"What  are  they  doing?  Why  don't  they  move?  Are 
they  all  dead?"  she  wondered;  and  at  that  word  "dead," 
shaken  by  an  access  of  terror,  she  fumbled  her  way  to  the 
open  door;  felt  round  the  lintel,  then  along  the  edge  of  the 
sink  in  the  living-room;  found  the  handle  of  the  other  door, 
at  last;  opened  it,  and  ran  along  the  passage,  her  hands  ex- 
tended upon  either  side  of  her,  until  she  reached  the  entrance; 
felt  for  the  handle,  at  first  at  the  wrong  side,  found  it  and 
turned  it,  with  a  sense  of  immense  relief  at  the  sight  of  the 
light  upon  the  stairs,  Stein's  hunched-up  figure  still  there. 

"  Have  you  any  matches  and  a  penny  ?  The  gas  has  run 
out,"  she  cried,  without  a  thought  of  the  grotesque  triviality 
of  the  request  at  such  a  moment,  with  life  running  out.  But 
life  is  like  that,  all  of  it;  at  once  grotesque,  trivial  and 
terrible. 

Stein  scrambled  to  his  feet.     With  the  front  door  open 


LAURA  CREICHTON  249 

they  found  the  meter  on  a  bracket  above  it,  and  fed  it  with 
pennies.  The  front  door  slammed-to,  leaving  them  in  dark- 
ness again,  and  quite  suddenly  she  was  afraid,  though  not  of 
Stein — not  of  anything  in  particular;  just  desperately  afraid. 

"  Find  a  match !     Light  a  match ! "  she  cried. 

"Fool!  And  like  enough  all  the  taps  turned  on.  What 
lights  had  you?" 

"  The  kitchen — and  her  room." 

"Well,  then — there  you  are!" 

They  felt  their  way  to  the  kitchen,  found  the  pendant  and 
turned  off  the  tap;  then  the  gas  at  the  ring,  roaring  beneath 
the  kettle. 

Stein  flung  open  the  window.  "We  must  wait  until  it 
clears  off,"  he  said;  and  they  waited,  with  the  children 
whimpering  round  them,  regardless  of  Albert's  fierce  whisper: 

"Shut  up!     Oh,  shut  up;  for  God's  sake,  shut  up!" 

At  last  the  air  cleared,  and  they  lit  the  gas.  Through  the 
open  door  of  the  bedroom  they  could  see  the  dim  figures  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grobo,  sitting  bolt  upright  at  either  side  of  the 
bed.  The  pillows  looked  flattened. 

"  Oh,  why  have  they  laid  her  down?  She  can't  breathe, 
like  that,"  thought  Laura. 

"  By  your  leave,  Madame,"  said  Stein,  and  entering,  turned 
off  the  gas-tap,  waited  a  minute  or  so,  and  then  lit  it. 

Laura,  following  him,  was  struck  by  the  dreadful  silence 
of  the  room;  more  terrifying  than  any  sound.  As  the  light 
sprang  up,  she  looked  at  the  bed.  Lily  was  lying  quite  flat, 
motionless,  silent.  She  must  have  died  that  very  moment 
when  the  gas  went  out. 

Laura's  eyes,  travelling  from  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grobo — sitting 
there  as  though  they  were  stuffed — round  the  room,  lighted 
upon  Stein;  and  even  then,  with  that  curious  detachment 
which  comes  in  moments  of  emotion,  she  was  amazed  to  see 
that  he  had  dropped  upon  his  knees,  was  crossing  himself. 

There  was  a  sound  of  knocking  at  the  outer  door.  Someone 
must  have  run  to  open  it,  for  the  next  thing  she  realised  was 
that  her  husband  was  moving  swiftly  across  the  room. 

He  dropped  upon  his  knees  at  the  bedside.  "  Lily — Lily 
— my  precious!"  he  said;  and  then,  touching  her  hand,  gave 
a  loud  cry,  and  burst  into  tears. 

After  that,  Laura's  benumbed  senses  were  swept  under  by 
a  wave  of  weeping.  Grobo,  with  his  arms  outstretched 
across  his  dead  child — funny,  still  funny — weeping,  weeping; 
Mrs.  Grobo,  upright  in  her  chair,  weeping;  the  children 


250  LAURA  CREICHTON 

weeping;  Albert,  standing  there,  kicking  at  a  footstool,  his 
head  bent,  one  shoulder  higher  than  the  other,  weeping. 

Laura's  eyes  were  on  her  husband's  back.  She  found 
herself  wondering  about  him  dully:  who  he  was,  why  he  was 
there,  what  he  had  to  do  with  her.  "Paul?"  she  thought. 
"Paul" — trying  to  impress  him  on  her  mind,  as  though  he 
were  a  stranger  whose  aspect,  face  and  mind  she  was  endeav- 
ouring to  make  sure  of;  deadened  and  stupid. 

After  a  while,  with  that  relief  she  always  found  in  carrying 
on  with  the  practical  affairs  of  life,  she  raised  Charles  in  her 
arms,  took  Cora  by  the  hand,  and,  leading  them  off  to  the 
room  at  the  further  end  of  the  passage,  undressed  them  and 
put  them  to  bed.  Their  sobs  seemed  to  be  choking  them,  but 
in  five  minutes  they  were  asleep.  Returning  to  the  kitchen, 
she  dispatched  Joseph  to  his  bed.  "  You  are  tired,"  she  said. 
"You'd  better  go." 

As  he  passed  her,  his  head  bent,  his  arm  up  against  his 
face,  she  pulled  him  to  her  and  kissed  him.  "Get  out,"  he 
said;  then  dropped  his  arm  and  clung  to  her  for  a  moment, 
his  face  pressed  against  her  sleeve;  pushed  her  from  him  and 
ran  off,  with  gulping  sobs,  the  sound  of  which  diminished 
down  the  long  passage. 

The  baby  was  crying  again,  and  passing  into  the  inner 
room  Laura  gave  her  to  her  mother,  who  fed  her  mechanically, 
staring  in  front  of  her,  the  tears  falling  upon  the  downy 
head. 

Vortonitch  was  still  kneeling  by  the  bedside,  his  face  hid- 
den. After  she  had  undressed  the  baby — disproportionately 
depressed  because  there  was  no  hot  water  with  which  to  wash 
it — and  patted  it  off  to  sleep  in  the  small  bed,  Laura  touched 
her  husband  upon  his  shoulder. 

"Paul,  Paul!" 

He  staggered  to  his  feet,  blinking,  half-blinded  with 
tears  and  fatigue.  He  looked  so  tired,  so  ill,  that  her  heart 
felt  sore,  like  an  open  wound.  If  only  they  had  been  alone, 
she  thought,  she  would  have  put  her  arms  round  him,  drawn 
his  head  down  against  her  heart,  in  the  way  she  had  always 
done.  As  it  was,  she  could  scarcely  speak;  she  felt  stiff  all 
all  over,  body  and  mind.  And,  after  all,  it  was  not  only  the 
presence  of  the  others;  it  was  something  in  herself  which  held 
her  back. 

"  Someone  must  go  for  the  doctor,"  she  said. 

Vortonitch  gave  a  wearied  movement  of  his  head  and 
shoulders.  "  I'm  tired,  tired  out,"  he  said.  "  Such  a  journey 


LAURA  CREICHTON  251 

— my  God,  such  a  journey!  I  only  got  the  letter  this  morning, 
after  nine,  just  in  time  to  catch  the  train,  and  now  .  .  .  This 
— this!"  He  glanced  towards  the  bed,  and  the  tears  rained 
down  his  face.  "To  be  too  late,  like  this!" 

**  Oh,  well,  seeing  you're  all  in  such  a  state,  I'll  go  for  the 
doctor  myself,"  cried  Stein.  "Such  folly,  such  .  .  .  And 
now  then,  I  suppose  there's  no  one  knows  the  fellow's  address? 
— the  fellow  who  will  give  a  certificate  to  say  that  someone's 
been  graciously  allowed  to  die,  cut  away,  get  out  of  it  all." 
He  spoke  loudly,  defiantly,  as  though  in  some  way  scolding 
himself  more  than  others,  scolding  himself  out  of  feeling.  His 
face  was  all  twisted,  as  though  he  had  been  sucking  a  lemon, 
his  fierce  eyes  red. 

They  had  moved  into  the  outer  room,  where  Albert 
volunteered  the  address  of  the  doctor,  nodding  at  Vortonitch, 
"Well,  Comrade,"  furtively  putting  out  his  tongue  to  lick 
away  the  tears  which  ran  down  his  face. 

"There  are  other  things,"  began  Laura,  haltingly. 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  barked  Stein.  "  To  shovel  her  away 
out  of  sight — an  angel,  an  angel  if  there  ever  was  one.  But  it 
shall  be  properly  done;  I'll  see  to  it  that  it's  properly  donel 
All  this  fuss!  If  only  people  would  cease  having  children!** 

Albert  went  off  with  him,  and  Laura  and  her  husband 
remained  alone  in  the  living-room.  But  ten  days  earlier  they 
had  parted,  with  strained  embraces,  kisses;  but  now  they  did 
not  even  touch  hands,  for  the  tragedy  in  the  next  room  came 
between  them,  weighing  them  down.  Vortonitch  said,  "Well, 
Laura?"  and  Laura  answering  that  she  was  well,  enquired 
whether  he  were  better. 

"Better,  but  tired  out,"  he  said,  and  sank  heavily  into  a 
chair.  The  loaf  was  still  on  the  table,  and  he  pulled  it  towards 
him,  cut  off  a  bit  and  began  to  eat  it.  "I'm  famished,"  ht 
said.  "Nothing  since  breakfast,  and  travelling  all  day." 

A  feeling  of  bewilderment  came  over  Laura.  "But — 
Bournemouth,  it's  .  .  .  surely  .  .  ." 

"  Bournemouth? — oh,  but  I  wasn't  at  Bournemouth." 
Vortonitch's  voice  betrayed  some  surprise,  as  though  he  had 
forgotten  where  he  was  supposed  to  be.  "  Glasgow — and 
only  got  Mrs.  Grobo's  letter  this  morning.  My  God,  but  I'm 
tired!" 

"I'll  make  you  some  tea."  It  seemed  to  Laura  that  her 
life  was  being  punctuated  by  two  things:  handing  the  baby 
to  its  mother  to  be  fed  and  making  tea.  She  glanced  at  the 
clock.  It  was  twenty  minutes  to  ten.  She  had  been  in  the 


252  LAURA  CREICHTON 

flat  five  and  a  half  hours — more.  So  Paul  had  not  been  in 
Bournemouth  after  all.  No  wonder  that  she  had  no  answer 
to  her  letters;  and  the  lodging  would  have  to  be  paid  for, 
anyhow.  The  dull  thoughts  went  stumbling  to  and  fro  through 
her  brain,  and  with  them  a  sharper  resentment.  "  He  might 
have  told  me — he  might  have  let  me  know." 

As  she  was  making  the  tea,  Vortonitch  spoke  again,  as 
though  to  himself:  "Cruel,  cruel!  With  more  money,  they 
might  have  saved  her.  She  was  so  lovely.  Laura,  she  was 
lovely  in  every  sort  of  way.  The  first  day  I  met  you,  I  came 
on  here,  and  she  reminded  me  of  you;  she  has  always  re- 
minded me  of  you." 

Something  m  this  touched  Laura;  it  seemed  like  warm 
rain  falling  upon  parched  or  frozen  ground.  She  moved 
towards  her  husband,  put  her  arms  round  his  shoulders,  and 
drew  his  dark  head  against  her  breast. 

"Paul,  Paul — my  darling,  how  tired  you  are,  how  thin! 
You  ought  to  have  done  as  we  planned;  you  ought  to  have 
gone  to  the  sea,  and  rested." 

He  did  not  draw  away  from  her,  but  there  was  no  response 
in  the  weight  of  his  body  against  hers.  With  the  prescience 
of  love  she  realised  this,  and  moving  a  little  away  from  him, 
poured  out  his  tea. 

They  began  to  speak  of  Lily.  It  was  evident  that  with  his 
usual  engrossment  in  one  affair  at  a  time  he  was  unable  to 
think  of  anything  apart  from  her  death;  the  tragedy  of  it  all 
overweighed,  pressed  down  into  him,  as  it  were,  by  his  own 
fatigue. 

Presently  Grobo  came  in,  and  seating  himself  at  the  table 
began  to  eat,  the  tears  falling  upon  his  bread-and-butter  in 
the  same  way  as  the  children's  had  done.  As  Laura  moved 
towards  the  bedroom,  he  called  to  her: 

"  She  wants  to  be  alone.  She  sent  me  out — even  me." 
He  turned  to  Vortonitch,  his  face  working:  "She  was  asking 
for  you;  all  the  time  she  was  asking  for  you,  my  dear." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  and  then :  "  I  must  'ear.  'ow 
things  march  in  the  north,"  he  said,  in  a  changed  voice. 

Laura  took  down  her  hat  and  coat  from  the  peg  behind  the 
door,  put  them  on  and  buttoned  the  fur  up  round  her  throat. 
Overcome  by  a  sense  of  nervous  exhaustion,  it  was  all  she 
could  do  not  to  burst  into  tears;  crying,  not  for  Lily,  but  for 
herself,  her  own  loneliness. 

"I  think  I  must  go — go  back."  She  could  not  bring 
herself  to  say  "  home."  "  I  mustn't  miss  the  last  train." 


LAURA  CREICHTON  253 

"Wait  a  moment;  I'll  come  to  the  station  with  you," 
said  Vortonitch,  and  half  rose. 

"  No,  no,  I  can  go  quite  well  alone."  The  offer  was  so 
half-hearted  that  it  shamed  her.  Her  eyes  filled  with  tears, 
and  she  moved  blindly  to  the  door,  almost  running  into  the 
doctor,  who,  entering  at  the  same  moment,  stood  aside  with 
a  profound  bow  to  let  her  pass.  Stein  and  Albert  were  with 
him;  in  the  passage,  beneath  the  freshly-lighted  gas-jet,  stood 
a  man  in  black,  with  a  deprecating  air  and  long  white  face, 
holding  his  hat  to  his  breast. 

Unnoticed  by  all  save  the  doctor,  whose  bloodshot  eyes, 
mocking  and  bold,  followed  her,  Laura  slipped  out  of  the  flat, 
and  down  the  stairs. 

Since  she  left  her  husband  she  had  thought  of  nothing, 
planned  for  nothing,  apart  from  meeting  him  again.  And 
now,  now — why,  she  did  not  even  know  his  address. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

IT  was  close  upon  a  month  after  Laura's  return  home  when 
there  was  that  explosion  in  the  House  of  Commons,  con- 
current with  a  separate  and  deliberate  attempt  upon  the  life 
of  the  Prime  Minister,  in  which,  though  several  other  people 
were  severely  injured,  and  one  innocent  attendant  killed,  the 
Premier  himself  escaped  with  nothing  more  than  a  severe 
shaking  and  some  slight  concussion. 

Was  that  before  or  after  that  assassination  in  the  Nether- 
lands? Trying  to  remember,  retracing  it  all  in  her  mind, 
Laura  realised  that  it  must  have  been  after;  but  only  just 
after,  for  the  arrangements  made  for  the  King  and  Queen  to 
attend  a  Commemoration  Service  in  Westminster  Abbey  had, 
quite  at  the  last  moment,  been  cancelled  on  account  of  this 
very  outrage.  .  .  .  Though,  was  it  on  account  of  it,  or  rather 
for  fear  of  something  of  the  same  sort  occurring  again, 
freighted  with  a  more  terrible  consequence?  How  much  was 
known?  What  had  been  discovered?  Who  was  implicated? 
This  was  what  was  asked;  and  little  wonder,  when  it  was  so 
completely  unlike  the  Royal  Family  to  allow  itself  to  appear 
frightened:  though  the  fierce  insistence,  the  reiteration  of  the 
blows  struck  at  public  security,  life,  property,  was  enough 
to  alarm  anyone,  let  alone  that  shying-post  of  revolutionists, 
as  represented  by  royalty. 

All  sorts  of  reports  were  in  the  air.  In  London,  people 
gathered  in  groups,  like  hiving  bees;  utter  strangers  began 
talking  to  each  other,  in  an  un-English  way,  with  no  thought 
of  introduction,  almost  as  in  the  first  days,  those  expansive 
first  days,  of  the  war.  Though — Oh,  well,  after  all,  what  was 
this  but  war?  demanded  the  more  outspoken;  that  sort  of 
war  in  which  no  one  knows  who  is,  or  who  is  not,  his  enemy: 
the  insidious  war  of  terrorism,  which  had  seemed  so  far  away 
and  detached  so  long  as  it  came  no  nearer  home  than  Ireland. 

Laura  was  very  tired;  the  strain  of  those  amazing  seven 
months  of  married  life,  the  reversal  of  all  that  had  ever  come 
before,  the  shock  of  Lily's  death,  the  sense  of  being  in  a 
completely  false  position,  were  all  alike  telling  upon  her, 

254 


LAURA  CREICHTON  255 

bitten  in  by  her  uncertainty,  her  anxiety  regarding  her  hus- 
band; for  excepting  for  one  letter  written  the  day  after  that 
meeting  at  the  Grobos',  she  had  heard  nothing  more  of  him, 
had  refrained — from  a  mingled  pride  for  herself,  for  him — 
from  anything  that  might  have  been  interpreted  as  spying. 

Apart  from  this,  she  was  too  worn  out  for  any  effort.  Her 
brain  worked  with  difficulty,  and  in  spasmodic  jerks;  she 
found  it  difficult  to  co-ordinate:  if  anyone  had  asked  her 
suddenly  what  she  was  thinking  of,  or  what  she  had  been 
doing  the  day  before,  she  would  have  found  it  impossible  to 
say. 

She  had  returned  home  with  a  sort  of  obstinate  hope, 
deep  rooted  in  her  heart;  that  belief  of  youth  in  the  im- 
possibility of  anything  like  continued  unhappiness,  of  any- 
thing really  coming  to  an  end  which  one  does  not  wish  to 
come  to  an  end.  Slowly,  very  slowly,  ever  since  that  dream- 
like meeting  with  her  husband  in  the  Grobos'  flat,  this  hope 
had  been  dying.  It  left  her  with  a  sense  of  being  strangely 
wrung  out,  muddled  and  helpless;  the  sort  of  feeling  that  one 
may  have,  buffeted  here  and  there  by  a  crowd,  unable  to  pass 
on  or  to  turn  back,  or  in  any  way  to  escape  from  the  press. 

A  crowd — ah,  yes;  that  was  it:  a  crowd;  events,  terrible 
events,  following  upon  each  other  so  quickly  that  they  appeared 
to  be  all  round  her,  pressing  in  upon  her  from  every  side;  a 
crowd  with  strange  and  dreadful  faces. 

The  whole  of  March  and  the  first  week  in  April  were 
bitterly  cold.  The  little  groups  of  people  at  the  street  corners, 
piling  horror  upon  horror,  prophecy  upon  prophecy,  were 
swept  all  one  way,  cling  to  their  coats  and  cloaks  as  they 
might,  by  a  cruel  east  wind,  dust,  grit,  sleet,  scatterings  of 
snow  which  refused  to  fall  properly  and  have  done  with  it. 
The  lengthening  days  seemed  to  grow  colder  with  the  hypo- 
critical pretence  of  spring;  while  the  country  was  held  up  by 
another  coal  strike.  Even  "  The  House "  at  Blackheath  ran 
short,  the  only  people  who  were  really  warm  being  the 
servants  in  their  kitchens  with  their  range;  answering  the 
bells  with  exasperatingly  warm,  flushed  faces.  Lady  Creich- 
ton  was  already  unwell,  and  Sir  Harry  in  a  state  of  irritation 
beyond  all  words,  when  Marjorie  was  laid  up  with  measles, 
taking  them  as  a  personal  insult,  though  not,  unhappily, 
beyond  words.  Just  as  she  was  out  of  quarantine  she  con- 
tracted a  chill,  and  this  made  matters  worse;  not  only  for 
Marjorie,  but  for  everyone  else  also. 

It  all  sounds  petty  enough,  but  it  was  not  really  petty — 


256  LAURA  CREICHTON 

nothing  ever  is:  for  it  frayed  the  nerves  and  tempers  of  the 
entire  family,  left  them  open  to  any  sort  of  attack.  Then 
as  worse  things  happened  they  were  overcome  by  the  bitterest 
self-reproach.  Why  hadn't  they  been  more  patient?  Why 
had  they  been  as  they  had  been,  all  snapping  at  each  other, 
when  they  were  happy,  really  happy,  happy  as  they  could 
never  be  again?  Laura  had  not  snapped,  it  is  true,  but  that 
did  not  clear  her,  fpr  she  had  been  deeply,  unforgivably 
indifferent  to  all  trouble  apart  from  her  own,  or  so  she  felt. 

One  day  Sir  Harry  returned  home  between  tea  and 
dinner,  rather  nearer  dinner  than  tea.  It  was  broad  daylight; 
there  could  have  been  no  excuse  to  turn  on  the  electric  light 
and  draw  the  curtains;  but  they  would  have  felt  better  had 
they  done  so,  for  the  sky,  light  grey  with  a  yellowish  tint  which 
threatened  snow,  filled  the  room  with  a  peculiarly  unpleasant 
light,  and  the  quality  of  light  affects  human  beings  more  than 
they  realise. 

There  was  a  tiny  fire  burning  in  the  grate,  and  Sir  Harry 
remarked  on  it:  "This  room's  like  an  ice-house.  Why  don't 
you  women  go  and  take  some  exercise,  instead  of  sitting  here 
shivering?"  he  said,  and  then  began  to  sneeze. 

"I've  got  an  awful  cold.  By  gad!  this  weather  and  no 
coal — it's  beyond  a  joke!  I  don't  know  what  things  are 
coming  to!"  He  sneezed  again,  and  yet  again  and  again. 
"  I've  a  good  mind  to  have  a  fire  in  my  room  and  go  to  bed," 
he  said;  and  there  was  something  pathetic  in  his  voice,  for 
he  was  really  feeling  ill,  and  wanted  his  wife  to  say,  "Yes, 
dear;  that's  the  best  thing  you  can  do;  and  have  your  dinner 
in  bed."  Life  was  not  easy  for  him,  either;  not  for  worlds 
would  he  have  confessed  to  any  fear;  above  all  for  himself, 
though  that  was  there  too;  not  exactly  fear,  but  a  sort  of 
jumpiness,  never  knowing  what  may  come  upon  one  round 
any  corner.  For  there  were  constant  ambushes  now,  as  there 
had  been  for  so  long  in  Ireland — though  of  course  in  Ireland 
they  were  used  to  that  sort  of  thing.  It  was  totally  unlike 
England;  it  had  never  happened  in  England  before,  and  it 
bewildered  and  exasperated  the  General.  No  longer  young, 
he  was  incapacitated  for  grappling  with  the  present  by  his 
engrossment  in  the  past :  "  My  young  days "  — "  The  old 
Queen's  time"  — "After  the  Boer  War." 

It  was,  indeed,  his  fear,  almost  amounting  to  shame,  for 
his  country  which  was  telling  upon  him  far  more  than  any 
personal  danger.  For  he  had  been  so  proud  of  his  country, 
loved  it  with  an  intensity  strange  and  laughable  to  the 


LAURA  CREICHTON  257 

younger  generation;  while  in  his  own  home,  however 
difficult  or  even  dangerous  life  might  be  in  the  outer  world,  he 
had  a  man's  way  of  expecting  everything  to  go  on  precisely 
the  same;  with  no  sort  of  alteration  or  curtailment.  There 
was  no  reason  for  it,  with  "proper  management,"  "with 
method." 

"Other  people  seem  to  manage  all  right  with  their  fires. 
I  went  into  the  Fieldens'  yesterday,  and  there  was  a  splendid 
fire."  A  pause;  then:  "I  believe  if  I  turned  in  now,  kept 
really  warm,  I  might  check  this  confounded  cold.  .  .  ." 
Another  pause;  "Upon  my  word,  things  have  come  to  a 
pretty  pass  if  a  man  can't  have  a  fire  in  his  own  bedroom,  in 

his  own  house!  It's  about  time "  He  broke  off, 

sneezing. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Lady  Creichton,  "  as  if  anyone  could  have 
a  fire  in  their  bedrooms  at  times  like  these!  Why,  even  in 
Buckingham  Palace " 

"A  lot  of  good  it'll  do  anyone  if  I'm  ill  ...  By  Jove!  I 
wonder  if  there's  anyone  else  ever  has  such  colds?" 

"I  bet  you  don't  feel  as  rotten  as  I  do,  for  all  that," 
muttered  Marjorie;  but  her  father  did  not  appear  to  notice 
her. 

"  It  will  be  a  nice  thing  if  I  get  knocked  up  and  can't  get 
down  to  Woolwich  to-morrow,  with  the  Prince  coming  to 
inspect  it,  and  all!  Look  well,  eh?" 

"Ump  .  .  ."  Lady  Creichton  was  knitting,  with  fingers 
so  cold  that  she  could  scarcely  hold  the  steel  needles.  Happen- 
ing to  glance  up,  she  saw  that  her  husband's  jaw  was  stuck 

out  in  that  old  mule-like  way,  and Ah,  there  is  no  doubt 

about  it,  his  complete  helplessness  in  the  Laura  affair  had 
diluted  the  awe  in  which  she  had  always  held  him — snapped, 
dropping  a  stitch:  "Oh,  well,  I  daresay  you  wouldn't  be 
missed!" 

She  could  never  forget  it — never,  never!  Neither  could 
Marjorie  forget  her  bitter  "Always  something  or  other,"  as 
her  father  left  the  room,  sneezing,  banging  the  door  behind 
him;  or  Laura  her  deadened  sense  of  contempt  for  this  great 
baby,  his  fussing  over  a  cold  in  the  head.  A  mere  cold  in  the 
head,  and  all  those  horrors  of  which  Vortonitch  had  told  her 
still  going  on  and  on;  intensified,  rolling  up  into  something 
monstrous  beyond  all  words.  Though,  after  all,  come  to 
think  of  it,  there  was  no  one  made  more  fuss  over  a  cold  than 
Vortonitch  himself. 

Lady  Creichtou  had  a  fire  lighted  in  her  husband's  room, 


258  LAURA  CREICHTON 

and  he  found  it  when  he  went  up  to  dress  for  dinner;  though 
it  was  too  late  by  then,  or  so  he  declared,  to  think  of  going  to 
bed  until  the  usual  time.  Marjorie  retired  early — anyhow 
Marjorie  had  ceased  to  count  very  much,  one  way  or  another; 
but  Laura,  ashamed  of  herself  and  her  coldness,  puzzled  at 
herself,  as  she  so  often  was  nowadays,  made  a  special  effort  to 
be  nice  to  her  father;  while  Lady  Creichton,  recapturing  her 
usual  sweet  placidity,  donned  one  of  her  prettiest  evening 
gowns:  it  was  not  her  fault  that  the  greater  part  of  it  had  to 
be  covered  with  a  woolly  shawl,  for  it  is  impossible  for  little 
fires  to  warm  a  big  house. 

Her  husband  had  hot  whisky-and-water,  with  lemon  and 
nutmeg,  in  bed,  the  last  thing  at  night:  both  that  evening 
and  next  morning  she  did  all  she  could;  they  all  did  all  they 
could:  even  Parker,  who  was  constantly  at  loggerheads  with 
the  General's  soldier  servant  over  the  question  of  metal  polish; 
who  had  tossed  her  head  and  snorted  when  he  brought  out  an 
order  for  a  fresh  relay  of  tea,  just  as  she  was  about  to  lay  the 
dinner. 

"There  isn't  anything  anyone  wouldn't  have  done  for 
the  master,"  she  said  later;  and  yet  it  was  the  memory  of 
that  unfortunate  interval  between  five  and  six-thirty  which 
cut  into  their  hearts  when  he  was  brought  home  next  day. 
"  Brought " !  What  a  word  that  is,  in  that  context ! 
"  Brought."  An  end  of  coming  and  going  for  every  one  of 
us;  "brought"  or  being  "taken" — the  end  of  the  life  like 
the  beginning;  no  choice  in  the  matter;  tugged  along  with 
the  nurse's  hand  on  one's  wrist. 

Marjorie  had  accompanied  him  to  Woolwich,  for  the  sake 
of  the  drive,  because  it  was  a  fine  day,  and  she  had  been  ill. 
The  "  arrangement "  being  that  the  chauffeur  should  drop  him, 
take  her  back  home,  and  then  return. 

Just  at  the  last  moment,  however,  the  General  told  the 
man  to  draw  up  to  the  side  of  the  big  gates  and  wait  there  for 
a  while.  "  Might  as  well  have  a  look  at  the  big-wigs  while 
you're  about  it,"  he  said;  with  the  idea  that  it  was  good  for 
young  people,  with  their  ridiculous  fandangle  of  ideas,  to  see 
something  of  royalty;  to  shame  them,  if  this  were  possible, 
with  the  sight  of  a  life  so  much  better  ordered  than  their 
own;  while  Marjorie  assented  with  a  shrug — for  what  were 
royalties  and  deities,  and  people  like  that,  to  her  and  her  set? 

There  was  the  usual  midday  crowd  in  Beresford  Square, 
for  the  most  part  in  dark  clothes;  broken  here  and  there  by 
the  white  aprons  of  those  women  of  the  more  independent 


LAURA  CREICHTON  259 

sort,  who  came  out  of  their  homes  or  workshops  just  as  they 
were. 

The  fruit,  vegetable  and  flower  stalls  had  been  pushed 
back  further  up  the  hill,  almost  out  of  the  square.  Backing 
the  dark-coated  crowd  Marjorie  caught  sight  of  a  barrow 
piled  high  with  yellow  daffodils,  the  only  spot  of  colour,  apart 
from  a  few  flags  flopping  dismally  against  a  leaden  sky;  for 
the  early  morning  brightness  was  already  gone;  it  was  very 
cold,  and  it  looked  as  though  it  might  rain  again. 

Marjorie  had  always  hated  Woolwich — in  the  same  way  as 
she  hated  what  she  called  "  the  common  people  " — that  is  to 
say  Woolwich  apart  from  "the  Shop";  and  upon  this 
particular  morning  Beresford  Square,  the  blackened  walls  and 
gateway  of  the  Arsenal,  depressed  her  beyond  words.  She 
was  certain  she  was  going  to  take  a  fresh  cold,  and  what  was 
the  good  of  doing  that  for  the  sake  of  all  the  royalties  in  the 
world,  let  alone  one  mere  "infant,"  not  even  the  heir  to  the 
throne;  for  all  the  world  like  any  other  infant! 

She  was  leaning  forward  to  tell  George  to  drive  her 
straight  home,  when  she  saw  that  the  police  were  pressing 
back  the  crowd,  further  and  more  fussily  than  usual.  For 
there  was  apparent  among  the  members  of  the  force,  in  these 
days,  an  air  of  nervous  exasperation,  a  loss  of  their  usual 
geniality,  a  tendency  to  glance  round  sharply  over  one 
shoulder;  the  mounted  men  alone,  uplifted  in  more  senses 
than  one,  buoyed  up  by  the  firmness  and  docility  of  their 
mounts,  retaining  quite  their  usual  dignity. 

What  followed  passed  with  the  effect  of  a  too-rapidly-dis- 
played cinema,  laid  out  horizontally  upon  a  level  with  one's 
eye.  There  was  the  crowd,  a  flat  mosiac  of  dark  clothes  and 
white  faces,  as  little  relieved  as  a  photo;  the  mounted  and 
foot  police  pressing  it  back;  the  sooty  walls,  the  darkened 
sky,  the  widening  strip  of  drab-tinted  road  rolling  out  like  a 
narrow  stair-carpet,  as  the  people  were  cleared  away  from  it. 

It  was  bitterly  cold;  every  vestige  of  sun  gone;  there  was 
no  band,  or  anything;  only,  further  away  up  the  street, 
from  the  direction  of  Charlton,  came  the  sound  of  a  cheer, 
unimposing  and  unstimulating ;  as  chill  as  the  wind  itself. 

At  the  same  moment,  a  little  group  of  officers  came  out  of 
the  Arsenal  gate  and  advanced  so  as  to  be  ready  to  meet  the 
oncoming  personage.  As  the  cheers  came  nearer,  still  oddly 
flat  and  void  of  enthusiasm,  General  Sir  Harry  Creichton 
moved  forward  in  advance  of  his  staff. 

It  is  impossible  to  express  the  whole  effect  in  anything  but 


260  LAURA  CREICHTON 

the  baldest  terms,  for  that  is  what  it  was:  bald,  flat,  dull; 
those  blessed  qualities  of  "  admiration,  hope  and  love " 
having,  for  the  time  being,  evaporated  from  the  hearts  of 
England.  People  still  turned  out  to  stare  at  any  member  of 
the  reigning  family,  from  a  sort  of  habit;  but  they  stared 
dully;  not  because  of  any  feeling  of  general  disloyalty,  but 
because  they  were  worried,  and  there  is  nothing  so  dulling  as 
worry.  The  police  were  worried,  the  troops  were  worried,  the 
Staff,  the  General  himself;  and  this  worry,  intangibly  evident 
in  every  face  and  movement,  had,  in  conjunction  with  the 
weather,  the  disordered  livers  which  it  engendered,  the  effect 
of  a  sort  of  fine  blue  mould  overspreading  everything. 

Sir  Harry  Creichton  alone,  the  oldest  of  all  the  men  in 
uniform,  moved  with  the  briskness  which  refuses  to  acknowl- 
edge that  anything  can  be  wrong.  Later  on,  looking  back 
over  it  all,  Marjorie  had  an  impression  of  seeing  her  father  at 
that  moment  in  a  way  she  had  never  seen  him  before:  clearly, 
as  one  sees  a  person  for  the  first  time:  very  upright,  holding 
his  shoulders  rather  stiffly,  in  a  way  of  men  no  longer  young, 
who  are  afraid  of  letting  themselves  go:  his  aquiline  face 
seeming  a  little  bronzed  in  contrast  to  the  faces  of  the  crowd 
• — dull-white,  bluish-red,  flattened  out  with  the  cold. 

There  was,  by  now,  a  fair  space  cleared  in  front  of  the 
gates,  and  he  moved  out  onto  it,  a  new  departure,  for  in  the 
old  days  visitors,  whoever  they  might  be,  were  received 
within  the  precincts  of  the  Arsenal  itself. 

For  a  moment  all  the  other  people  in  the  Square,  the 
General's  own  officers,  the  crowd,  the  policemen,  were  like  a  flat 
frame  pressed  back  and  away  from  him.  An  ardent  stickler 
for  dignity,  for  ceremony,  he  was  alone;  as  it  seemed  fitting 
that  he  should  be  alone.  Of  course,  the  rest  of  them  must 
have  been  near,  quite  near;  one  realised  that  later,  because 
of  ...  oh,  well,  because  of  what  happened  to  Major  Gosling, 
Captain  Hibbert,  young  Jackson.  But,  all  the  same,  he 
did  seem  to  stand  out  quite  widely  detached  from  the  rest 
of  them,  the  Arsenal  Staff  and  the  crowd:  hanging  back, 
waiting  with  scarcely  a  movement,  until  the  man  with  the 
daffodils  made  a  fierce  attempt  to  drive  his  barrow  down, 
through  the  crowd,  to  the  centre  of  the  Square. 

Almost  every  head,  the  policemen's  included,  was  turned 
in  that  direction;  while  in  one  fraction  of  a  second,  as  it 
seemed,  a  sense  of  confusion  and  madness,  excitement  at  the 
prospect  of  any  set-to  with  the  police,  however  trivial,  swept 
down  over  them  all,  like  one  of  those  sudden  gusts  of  wind, 


LAURA  CREICHTON  261 

which  catch  up  the  dust  in  spirals.  From  a  dense  and  lifeless 
mass  of  humanity  the  crowd  shifted  to  an  assembly  of  in- 
dividuals, gesticulating,  laughing,  shouting — an  odd  effect  of 
open  mouths  in  white  faces,  that.  A  mounted  constable's 
horse  backed  too  suddenly,  and  there  was  a  shriek,  a  volley  of 
curses  and  more  or  less  obscene  chaff:  the  crowd  was  half 
across  the  road;  the  Prince's  motor  blocked,  hooting:  the 
whole  effect  that  of  a  saucepan  of  milk  boiling  up  suddenly, 
boiling  over. 

As  to  what  followed,  all  in  a  breath  .  .  .  Oh,  it  didn't 
happen — not  in  the  sort  of  way,  more  or  less  orderly,  in  which 
real  things  do  happen;  it  was  nothing  more  than  a  sort  of 
kaleidoscopic  impression  whisked  across  Marjorie  Creichton's 
line  of  vision,  or  so  it  seemed.  It  was  weeks  before  she  could 
impress  it  all  upon  herself  as  real;  tremendously  real,  final, 
concrete. 

Some  rough  caught  up  a  bunch  of  daffodils  from  the 
barrow  and  threw  it;  it  was  as  though  the  frame  around  that 
oddly  stiff  and  yet  impressive  figure  of  her  father  had  suddenly 
become  alive.  The  General  had  his  jaw  thrust  out  sideways — 
she  saw  it,  oh  yes,  she  saw  that — was  near  enough  for  that. 
.  .  .  Things  weren't  going  as  they  ought  to  be  going,  with  the 
near  approach  of  royalty.  Something  else  was  thrown;  some- 
thing— she  actually  saw  it  in  the  air,  like  a  cricket-ball.  And 
then  came  a  flash,  so  blinding  that  it  seemed  to  tear  the  eyes 
from  her  head,  a  shriek,  a  crash  which  swelled  to  a  roar;  the 
glass  of  the  wind-screen  of  the  motor  shattering,  not  hitting 
her  in  the  face,  because  she  was  standing  up:  an  amazing 
silence,  and  then  another  roar,  the  roar  of  the  crowd,  pierced 
through  by  wild  hysterical  cries;  the  trampling  and  jostling 
of  thousands  of  people,  thousands  and  thousands  of  them, 
pressing  out  of  the  Arsenal,  pouring  down  the  side-streets, 
converging  towards  the  front  of  the  gates :  the  police  trying  to 
keep  them  back:  a  black  cloud  of  smoke;  a  pungent,  acid 
smell. 

Marjorie  leant  forward  and  caught  at  the  chauffeur's 
shoulder:  "Go  on — go  on!  Oh,  do  go  on!"  she  cried; 
then  as  he  did  not  turn,  peered  round  at  him,  and  saw  him 
with  both  hands  before  his  face,  the  blood  running  down 
between  his  fingers. 

"How  are  we  to  get  home  now?"  That  was  her  first 
thought;  panic-stricken  and  utterly  selfish,  angry  with  fear. 
She  was  halfway  over  the  back  of  the  front  seat.  She  could 
drive  a  little,  she'd  take  the  car  home  if  only  George  would 


262  LAURA  CREICHTON 

make  room  for  her — that  idiot  George!  What  good  was  he 
doing,  sitting  there,  grunting  like  that?  If  only  the  crowd 
would  move,  give  them  room — those  beastly  people! 

She  had  never  seen  George  more  plainly;  she  actually 
thought,  "His  gloves  will  be  all  spoilt  with  blood";  she  even 
noticed  the  odd  triangle  of  glass  left  whole  in  one  corner  of 
the  wind-screen;  but  nothing  further — nothing. 

Then,  very  slowly,  as  it  seemed,  her  glance  was  dragged 
outward  in  a  half -irritated  search  for  her  father.  If  he'd  only 
hurry  up  and  come  to  her,  she  could  get  away.  Awkwardly, 
in  the  grip  of  an  odd  sort  of  rigor,  she  raised  herself  stiffly  and 
stared  out  over  the  heads  of  the  people,  all  turned  in  one  direc- 
tion. Here  and  there  a  little  cleared  path  opened  for  the 
passage  of  someone  in  authority,  then  closed  up  again.  A 
slim  boyish  figure  in  uniform  ran  down  one  of  these:  it  was 
the  Prince,  so  he,  at  least,  was  not  hurt.  Then  what  was  all 
the  fuss  about?  What  had  happened?  What — what? 

She  was  stupid — oh  yes,  she  was:  always  stupid,  because 
she  always  thought  of  herself  first,  and  that  blocked  her  view. 
It  was  not  until  the  Prince  melted  into  it  that  she  realised  a 
small  inner  crowd,  surrounded  by  the  police — all  men,  and 
mostly  in  uniform — flattened  out,  as  though  they  were  bent, 
or  kneeling. 

A  clear  path  ran  out,  widening  like  a  crack,  from  the  gates 
of  the  Arsenal,  and  four  men  moved  down  it,  carrying  a 
stretcher. 

It  was  like  a  pointed  finger  to  that  small  inner  and  flattened 
crowd;  the  place  where  her  father  had  stood,  so  completely 
alone. 

It  was  then,  and  then  only,  that  the  truth  dawned  upon 
her;  but  even  yet  obscurely,  stunning  like  a  blow.  That 
open  space  as  it  had  been,  that  one  figure;  and  now  .  .  .  Oh, 
what  .  .  .  what?  It  seemed  as  though  her  chest  was  torn 
with  the  effect  of  someone,  far  away,  shrieking :  a  shriek  which 
struck  like  a  knife,  turning  in  her: 

"Father— father— father!     Oh,  oh,  oh!" 

The  chauffeur  had  dropped  his  hands,  and  turned, 
staring;  the  blood  streaming  down  his  face,  slashed  with  the 
glass  from  the  wind-screen.  Marjorie's  wide  eyes  met  his; 
it  seemed  as  though  they  were  asking  each  other  some  question 
too  dreadful  to  be  answered,  regarding  someone  for  whom 
they,  and  they  alone,  were  responsible. 

"  Where  is  he? — where?"    But  they  said  nothing. 

For  that  moment  it  seemed  as  though  a  claw  was  caught 


LAURA  CREICHTON  263 

round  that  bleeding  wound  in  Marjorie's  heart — lungs,  or 
whatever  it  was — torturing  and  yet  protecting,  holding  tight. 

Then  it  began  again:     "Father,  father!  0-o-o-oh!" 

Someone  jumped  into  the  car  and  caught  hold  of  her;  some- 
one else  led  George  away,  holding  a  handkerchief  to  his  face. 

"It's  his  daughter!"  "The  General's  daughter!"  It 
seemed  as  though  the  words  pierced  through  the  tumult,  oddly 
clear  and  apropos  of  nothing.  Quite  suddenly  Marjorie 
realised  the  face  of  a  friend  moving  towards  her,  with  a  look 
as  though  all  life  had  been  wiped  out  of  it:  the  face  of  a  man 
who  walks  in  some  awful  dream. 

"Oh,  Colonel  Fielden!"  she  cried;  and  then  began  to 
tremble  from  head  to  foot,  shaking  her  head;  the  tears 
streamed  down  her  face:  "What — what — oh,  what ?" 

It  seemed  that  this  was  what  she  kept  saying;  she  heard 
it  herself,  and  tried  to  stop  it,  her  teeth  chattering;  tried  to 
start  a  proper  sentence,  but  could  get  no  further  than  that,  as, 
with  a  policeman  in  George's  place,  and  Colonel  Fielden,  her 
father's  friend,  at  her  side,  the  motor  moved  forward,  pushing 
its  way  slowly  through  the  crowd,  up  the  Grand  Depot  Road 
and  past  the  Parade  Ground,  gathering  speed  as  they  turned 
away  from  the  trams  and  onto  the  old  Dover  Road. 

She  asked  no  definite  question;  she  daren't;  she  did  not 
know  what  to  ask:  she  was  torn  by  sobs;  could  hear  nothing, 
see  nothing  plainly. 

Colonel  Fielden  handed  her  his  handkerchief,  without 
seeming  to  look  at  her,  and  for  one  moment,  as  she  wiped  away 
her  tears,  making  an  effort  to  control  herself,  she  saw  his  face 
set  in  altogether  unfamiliar  lines;  then  everything  clouded 
over,  with  an  ever-swelling  roar  as  of  waves  through  her  head. 

When  she  came  to  herself  again,  in  her  own  bed,  in  her  own 
room,  she  put  her  hand  to  her  chest  and  drew  a  long,  painful 
breath : 

'"What — oh,  what  .  .  .  Something  blew  up  ...  some- 
thing .  .  .  I'm  wounded!" 

The  housemaid,  who  had  been  watching  over  her,  cap  all 
awry,  the  tears  running  down  her  face,  gave  a  sniff  of  con- 
tempt. How  like  Miss  Marjorie! 

"It  ain't  you  as  is  wounded;  there  ain't  nothing  wrong 
with  you,  miss,"  she  said;  and  then  began  to  cry  again,  moving 
to  the  door,  for  she  had  been  told  to  call  someone  else  directly 
her  charge  began  to  rouse  herself. 

But  Marjorie's  chest  did  really  pain  her,  though  there  was 
no  wound,  was  sore  with  the  effect  of  those  thin,  long-drawn 


264  LAURA  CREICHTON 

screams.  She  pressed  her  clenched  fists  to  it,  while  the  sense 
of  calamity  rolled  down  upon  her  like  a  heavy  leaded  curtain. 
What  had  happened?  What  was  it  that  had  happened? 
An  intense  dread  held  her;  she  was  like  a  person  in  a  deep 
sleep,  stifled  by  some  suffocating  dream,  vainly  struggling  to 
awake.  Once  again  she  saw  that  flattened  crowd;  Beresford 
Square,  the  mosaic  of  dark  clothes,  the  man  with  the  daffodils: 
the  sudden  glare.  Then,  with  a  sense  of  dreadful  nausea,  she 
heard  that  roar,  which  began  like  the  tearing  of  calico;  the 
tumult  of  the  crowd,  cut  through  by  those  ear-splitting 
screams.  After  this — one  vision  cut  off  from  another  by  the 
sheer  weight  of  sound — came  that  second  impression:  the 
bent  figures,  the  men  with  the  ambulance,  Colonel  Fielden's 
face;  and,  sitting  up  in  bed,  her  clenched  hands  still  pressed 
against  her  heart,  she  began  to  cry,  loudly  and  uncontrollably, 
like  a  small  child. 

Laura  came  into  her,  then  Cousin  Ethel;  but  they  were 
powerless  to  stop  her;  her  body  was  bathed  with  sweat,  she 
was  drenched  with  tears,  but  still  she  cried  on  and  on  and  on, 
until  at  last  her  mother  appeared  in  the  doorway:  stood 
there,  without  attemping  to  advance,  to  take  Marjorie  in  her 
arms,  or  comfort  her;  with  all  the  soft,  uncertain  lines  in  her 
delicate  face  changed,  gathered  into  furrows  deep  as  though 
carved  in  stone,  one  either  side  of  her  mouth,  and  three 
upright  on  her  forehead.  Her  whole  face  looked  stiff;  she 
held  herself  stiffly;  she  looked  altogether  different;  she  was 
different.  Marjorie  realised  this,  but  still  she  went  on 
howling. 

Cousin  Ethel  bent,  trying  to  pull  the  bedclothes  straight 
over  her  arched  knees,  looked  up :  "I  can't  do  anything 
with  her,"  she  said  helplessly;  the  tears  were  running  down 
her  face.  Indeed,  they  were  all  crying,  apart  from  Lady 
Creichton,  though  they  made  no  noise  about  it;  even  the 
housemaid,  who  had  come  back  into  the  room. 

"Be  quiet!"  said  Lady  Creichton.  She  spoke  automatic- 
ally, like  a  doll,  and  yet  sharply,  so  unlike  herself:  "  How  dare 
you  make  that  noise,  with  your  father  lying  dead  in  the 
house?" 

Out  of  sheer  surprise  Marjorie  was  silent;  and  Lady 
Creichton  turned  to  her  elder  daughter,  though  she  did  not 
really  look  at  her — looked  at  nobody:  "I  shall  want  you, 
Laura.  There  are  letters  which  must  be  written — those  poor 
Jacksons! — you'll  stay  with  Marjorie,  Ethel;  but  she  must 
control  herself."  The  housemaid  was  flattening  herself  back 


LAURA  CREICHTON  265 

against  the  open  door,  and  she  spoke  to  her  as  she  went  out: 
"You  must  get  the  blue  room  ready,  Gladys." 

"Freddie  Jackson  was  killed,"  said  Cousin  Ethel.  The 
Jacksons  lived  at  Eltham,  and  were  old  friends  of  the  family. 
"They  think  he  must  have  realised  it  coming — run  forward. 
And  Major  Gosling;  terribly  injured.  A  policeman,  too.  Oh, 
dear,  oh  dear!  whatever  is  the  world  coming  to!" 

"And — father!"  Marjorie  had  ceased  her  howling,  was 
catching  her  breath  in  gulping  sobs. 

Cousin  Ethel  stared:  "Didn't  you  know?  He  must 
have  been  killed  at  once — his  head  .  .  .  Oh,  horrible,  hor- 
rible! It  was  at  him  it  was  thrown.  .  .  .  Oh,  Marjorie,  when 
you  think  what  he  was!  That  he  never  did  any  harm  to 
anyone  in  his  life!  ...  To  throw  it  at  him — right,  straight 
at  him  like  that!" 

"What?    Throw  what?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know — I  don't  know!  Something  dreadful. 
Oh,  I  suppose  some  sort  of  a  bomb — something  like  that — at 
your  father!  Your  father,  of  all  people!" 

"He  had  a  cold  in  his  head,"  said  Marjorie.  It  sounded 
so  idiotic,  so  heartless,  that  it  was  little  wonder  Cousin  Ethel 
looked  shocked;  but  in  reality  Marjorie  was  overcome,  as  all 
young  people  are  in  the  face  of  any  great  calamity,  by  the 
realisation  of  the  commonplaceness,  the  everyday  aspect  of 
things  as  they  were  up  to  the  very  last  moment;  the  sudden, 
the  amazing  irrelevance  of  tragedy  in  connection  with  their 
own  people. 

She  began  to  cry  again,  catching  her  breath  in  gasping 
sobs: 

"Oh,  it  was  dreadful,  dreadful!  I  shall  never  forget  it — 
never,  never!  I  was  sitting  there  in  the  motor — it  was  all  so 
dull,  just  like  always;  and  then  .  .  .  Oh,  Cousin  Ethel, 
o-o-oh!  What's  that?  What  .  .  .  ?" 

She  caught  at  Cousin  Ethel's  arm  and  buried  her  face 
against  it,  as  a  motor  turned  into  the  drive  gate  with  a 
long-drawn  hoot. 

And  that  was  the  beginning  of  months  and  months  during 
which  she  would  burst  into  tears  at  any  unexpected  noise; 
when  she  daren't  go  out  of  the  house  alone;  when  her  sleep 
was  broken  by  dreams  so  dreadful  that  she  tried  to  keep 
herself  awake  by  sitting  up  in  bed  all  night,  propped  up  with 
pillows;  when  she  talked  and  talked  and  talked:  depended 
upon  everybody,  appealed  to  everybody,  even  to  God,  saying 
her  prayers  on  her  knees,  at  night,  human  and  humble. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE  spring  was  early  that  next  year  which  followed  upon 
General  Creichton's  death;  and  mercifully,  too,  for  it  had 
been  a  hard,  a  dreadful  winter,  in  which  the  cold,  the  gloom, 
the  unnatural  combination  of  thunderstorms  and  snow  seemed 
to  be  reflected  in  the  hearts  of  men.  Disputes  and  tragedies, 
endless  recriminations,  retaliations,  had  followed  close  upon 
each  other  throughout  the  whole  of  the  preceding  summer; 
and  then,  quite  suddenly,  everything  had  flattened  down  to 
what  seemed  like  the  inertia  of  despair.  Shortly  before  the 
New  Year  the  last  strike  had  fizzled  out,  and  the  labour  world 
was  at  peace;  but  a  sullen  sort  of  peace  to  the  casual  observer; 
to  the  more  thoughtful  a  possible  prelude  to,  the  drawing  of  a 
long  quiet  breath  prior  to  a  fresh  start. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  now,  and  now  only,  in  nineteen- 
twenty-two,  was  the  reaction  from  that  sort  of  St.  Vitus's  dance 
engendered  by  the  war:  the  realisation  by  the  civilised  world 
— the  more  or  less  civilised  world — of  its  own  aching  limbs. 

"Moribund" — that's  what  the  seeming  wise  said  in 
respect  to  England.  As  they  had  once  declared  that  it  would 
have  been  better  if  the  Germans  had  actually  invaded  the 
country,  so  they  now  said  that  it  would  have  been  better  if 
there  had  been  a  revolution,  "to  bring  things  to  a  head"- 
as  though  the  fact  of  any  sort  of  inflammation  coming  "to  a 
head  "  meant,  once  and  for  all,  as  though  any  body,  personal 
or  political,  couldn't,  and  didn't,  get  into  the  habit  of  these 
sort  of  swellings:  at  least,  that's  what  Gerald  Stratton  said, 
and  it  was  from  him  that  Laura  drew  most  of  her  ideas — her 
one  intimate  friend  in  a  world  almost  bereft  of  friendship. 
For  there  is  nothing  which  cuts  one  apart  from  one's  fellows 
like  any  sort  of  a  secret.  Stratton's  hopes,  diverse  from  the 
hopes  of  his  fellows,  lay  in  the  fact  that  there  had  been  no 
revolution;  chiefly  because  there  never  is  but  just  one,  clear 
cut  and  done  with;  for  so  soon  as  standardised  Governments 
are  upset,  everyone  wants  to  govern,  and  there  are  endless  con- 
fusions and  changes  of  government,  with  subsequent  suffering. 

Marjorie  was  herself  again — a  nicer,  simpler  self,  however — 
and  at  a  finishing-school  in  Lucerne;  a  great  idea,  this,  to 

266 


LAURA  CREICHTON  267 

Lady  Creichton,  carrying  on  the  tradition  of  her  elder  daugh- 
ter's supposed  education.  "The  House"  was  up  for  sale, 
for  it  was  far  too  big  and  too  expensive  for  the  family  now, 
without  even  Charles  coming  home  for  the  vacation;  for  he  had 
cut  his  last  year  at  Cambridge  and  gone  out  to  the  Argentine, 
to  one  of  his  mother's  cousins,  who  was  horse-breeding  there. 

So  far,  there  had  not  been  so  much  as  a  nibble  at  the  place; 
not  enough  town  and  not  enough  country.  The  uncertainty, 
however,  the  thought  that  it  was  no  good  planting  this  or  that 
in  the  garden,  because  they  might  be  leaving  so  soon,  the 
reduced  staff  of  servants,  was  breaking  the  home-ties  and 
sentiments  by  making  it  seem  so  unlike  home,  little  more  than 
a  camping-place. 

During  these  early  spring  months  Laura's  longing  for  some 
news  of  her  husband  became  almost  unbearable.  She  had 
awoken  from  her  inertia,  from  the  effects  of  underfeeding  and 
fatigue,  the  shock  of  her  father's  death,  and  she  was 
desperately  lonely.  It  was  worse  than  any  physical  pain, 
worse  than  anything  upon  earth;  that  sort  of  loneliness  which 
is  most  acute  among  others,  when  small-talk  separates  one  from 
those  memories,  those  imagined  conversations  which  in  some 
way  stuff  out  the  emptiness  of  life. 

It  was  a  year  now  since  she  had  seen  Paul;  a  year  since 
that  one  letter;  a  year — and  this  thought  was  one  with  the 
first  really  spring  day — since  Lily's  death. 

At  this,  it  came  over  her  that  she  could  bear  it  no  longer. 
And  why  should  she?  The  Grobos  would  be  almost  certain 
to  know  where  he  was.  She  had  written  to  them,  but  that  was 
months  ago.  She  was  so  sharply,  so  suddenly  decided,  that  it 
seemed  as  though  some  pressure,  some  weight,  were  removed, 
and  she  was  springing  up  from  under  it. 

She  did  not  even  think  over  what  she  was  going  to  say  to 
her  mother,  but  said  it,  at  lunch  that  very  day:  "Is  there 
anything  you  want  in  town?  I'm  going  up  this  afternoon" 
— the  simplicity  of  her  words  sounding  almost  ludicrous  in  her 
own  ears,  contrasted  with  all  that  they  meant:  above  all 
when,  in  answer  to  a  question,  she  added:  "To  see  some  old 
friends  of  my  husband's,"  using  that  word  "  husband  "  for  the 
first  time  for  months,  conscious  of  a  strange  feeling  of  play- 
acting at  the  sound  of  it. 

"My  husband"!  Was  it  true  that  she  had  a  husband — 
had  ever  had  one?  Sometimes  she  wondered  like  this; 
wondering  if  she  were  really  herself  or  the  "  Miss  Creichton  " 
so  well  known  to  society  in  Blackheath,  which  had  by  now,  in 


268  LAURA  CREICHTON 

these  crowded  days,  almost  forgotten  that  it  ever  had  any 
other  idea  of  her.  At  times  she  had  acquiesced  in  this;  it 
was  a  sort  of  relief:  at  others,  she  had  felt  like  crying  her 
estate  aloud :  "  I'm  married — married,  I  tell  you !  Stop  that 
Miss  Creichton  business!  Stop  it!  Married?  Why,  I've 
been  married  for  years — years  and  years  and  years!" 

Putting  this  into  words  to  herself,  she  was  torn  by  a  des- 
perate desire,  not  only  for  a  sight  of  Vortonitch,  the  touch  of 
his  hands,  the  feeling  of  him  near  her,  but  for  the  something 
so  completely  different  which  he  made  of  her;  for  the  hard 
life,  intermingled  with  a  sort  of  easy  recklessness;  the  dis- 
regard of  trifles  and  conventions. 

And  this  was  not  all,  for  beneath  her  quiet  exterior  she 
was  growing  fast;  fast  and  furiously,  with  that  crowded 
growth  which  we  find  in  a  plant  with  a  massed  tangle  of  roots 
crowded  into  an  over  small  pot.  She  might  have  had  a  child. 
Strange  that  the  thought  came  to  her  so  late,  and  never  during 
her  actual  married  life.  If  she  had  only  had  a  child  she  would 
have  been  happy  with  something  belonging  to  her,  free  of  that 
eternal  ache,  that  sense  of  chill  across  her  breast,  down  the 
front  of  her  arm,  over  her  entire  body;  the  ache  to  enfold 
something,  mother  something.  She  would  actually  curve  her 
arm,  alone  in  bed  at  night,  feeling  a  downy  head  in  the 
hollow  of  it.  There  had  been  none  of  this  when  Vortonitch 
was  with  her,  so  much  her  child  as  well  as  her  lover;  but  now 
that  she  had  not  Vortonitch,  there  were  times  when  everything 
was  almost  beyond  bearing. 

With  this  longing  for  a  child  came  feeling,  longing  which 
she  could  not  have  expressed.  She  had  once  been  just  one 
Laura,  simple  and  single-minded.  Now  things  twisted  them- 
selves, were  many-sided,  complicated,  almost  shameful: 
one  moment  she  wanted  one  thing,  the  next  moment  she 
wanted  another.  She  was  puzzled  at  herself,  bewildered,  half- 
frightened.  It  was  like  living  with  some  erratic  stranger;  and 
yet  always,  above  everything,  she  wanted  something  really 
belonging  to  herself,  of  herself:  Paul,  or  that  child  that  there 
might  have  been,  that  there  ought  to  have  been.  Sometimes 
it  did  not  seem  to  matter  so  much,  but  sometimes  it  was  un- 
endurable. The  thought  of  it  would  come  over  her  quite 
suddenly,  raking  her  body  and  soul,  as  a  harrow  rakes  a  field, 
tearing  up  all  the  silly  little  top-growth,  flowers  and  weeds, 
wounding  her,  leaving  her  sore.  And  when  this  happened, 
mostly  at  night,  she  would  cry  and  cry  and  cry,  until  she  was 
past  feeling. 


LAURA  CREICHTON  269 

One  night,  about  three  months  earlier,  her  mother  had 
come  into  her  room,  and  found  her  in  such  an  access  of  anguish 
that  she  was  unable  to  control  herself:  Laura,  who  had  been 
so  quiet,  slipped  back  so  perfectly  into  her  old  ways  that  Lady 
Creichton  had  made  sure  that  she  had  "  got  over  it  all."  As 
if  anyone  ever  does  really  get  over  anything;  as  if  with  every 
wound,  in  even  the  greenest  wood,  there  is  not  the  mark  of  a 
scar  left  beneath  the  bark. 

When  the  six  months,  which  it  had  been  determined  should 
elapse  before  making  the  marriage  public,  came  to  an  end  and 
there  was  no  news  of  Vortonitch,  she  had  been  anxious;  but 
Laura  had  said  nothing,  gone  through  that  day,  that  week, 
exactly  like  any  other,  and  she  was  half-disappointed.  Perhaps 
Laura  had  not  very  much  depth  of  feeling,  after  all;  young 
people  hadn't  in  these  days,  she  thought,  and  turned  her 
affections  more  to  her  youngest  daughter,  who  definitely 
needed  her. 

As  for  Laura,  she  too  wondered,  but  in  a  different  way,  how 
long  one  went  on  feeling,  longed  to  be  older:  "  If  I  was  as  old 
as  mother,  I  should  be  like  her;  I  shouldn't  feel  it  as  I  do; 
anyhow,  I  should  be  nearer  the  end.  Look  what  she  and 
Dad  had!  Years  and  years  and  years  together.  But  for 
all  that,  she  doesn't  seem  to  care  much;  perhaps  it's  being 
old — old  people  don't  care  much.  If  she  cared  I  could  talk 
to  her  of  Paul;  but  I  can't  talk  to  her  now — no  girls  can  talk 
to  their  mothers,  and  it's  because  they  don't  care.  That's  it — 
they  don't  care." 

On  this  special  night,  however,  all  barriers  were  broken 
down  between  the  two:  the  daughter,  who  was  so  reserved  in 
every  way,  and  the  mother,  who  had  always  talked  over  the 
top  of  her  feelings. 

"I  can't  bear  it!  Oh,  mother,  I  can't  bear  it — I  can't 
bear  it!"  cried  Laura.  "You  don't  know  what  it  is  ...  Oh, 
mother,  mother!" 

"I  know,  my  dear;  I  know.  One  feels  that  one  must  tear 
at  something,  break  down  something;  that  it's  impossible  to 
go  on." 

"You  feel  like  that?" 

"Yes,  yes." 

"I  sit  up  and  press  my  body  against  the  bars  at  the  back 
of  my  bed,  because  they're  hard  and  cold,  and  hurt  me — I 
think  I'll  go  mad." 

"  I  know,  I  know.  If  one  could  be  beaten — anything  .  .  . 
But  it's  worse  for  you,  because  you're  so  young." 


270  LAURA  CREICHTON 

*'  For  you,  because  you  were  used  to  each  other,  had  so 
long  together.  You  miss  him  more — must  miss  him  more. 
.  .  .  Oh,  but  no;  you  are  happier  than  I  am  because  you  did 
have  longer  together.  Look  at  me:  such  a  little  time,  such  a 
little  time!  And  nothing  left — nothing  to  show  that  it  was 
ever  there." 

"Oh,  Laura  dear,  but  with  me  so  much  longer  time  to  be 
unkind  in;  to  laugh  at  him — at  him,  whom  everyone  loved 
and  respected,  to  laugh!" 

"You  never  did,  never,  never!  You  were  perfect  with 
him." 

"I  did — I  did.  And,  Laura,  there  were  other  things.  I 
sort  of  prided  myself  upon  being  so  fastidious.  When  I  was 
young,  women  of  the  last  generation  were  like  that — I  always 
remembered  my  mother  saying  to  me :  '  There  are  horrid 
things  about  marriage,  but  women  have  to  learn  to  submit.' 
Laura,  I'm  glad  I  was  not  able  to  give  you  any  advice  before 
you  married.  Oh,  I  was — I  was  cruel  to  him.  I  see  it  now. 
And,  besides,  women  get  old  sooner  than  men;  or  perhaps  we 
think  we're  old;  then,  when  we're  left  alone,  we  find  we're 
not,  after  all.  I  wish  I  was  old.  Laura,  if  only  I  was  old! 
Old  people  don't  feel  things.  At  least,  I  don't  think  they  do. 
One  never  knows!" 

Lady  Creichton  spoke  in  a  half -whisper,  for  she  belonged  to 
an  age  when  women  were  unused  to  discussing  their  private, 
let  alone  their  matrimonial,  affairs  with  anyone;  above  all, 
with  their  children.  But  suddenly,  in  the  realisation  of  their 
common  suffering,  it  seemed  that  she  and  Laura  were  just  two 
women,  no  longer  weighted  with  that  mutual  distrust  common 
to  mothers  and  daughters,  however  loving  they  may  be. 

"  Sometimes  I  thought  he  was  like  a  mule,  with  his  chin 
out,"  Lady  Creichton  went  on  desperately.  "  Sometimes  we 
quarrelled — not  exactly  quarrelled,  but  disagreed  with  each 
other.  About  you,  now:  I  was  all  for  you,  Laura.  We 
couldn't  really  have  it  out,  like  young  people.  It  seems 
ridiculous  to  show  one's  feelings  as  one  gets  older — feelings  of 
that  sort.  One's  always  remembering  it,  thinking,  '  A  woman 
of  my  age!  '  Then  that  day,  the  very  day  before — do  you 
remember,  Lolly? — I  said" — her  voice  dropped  to  an  almost 
undistinguishable  whisper — "  I  said,  '  You'd  never  be  missed. ' 
I  shall  never  forget  that  as  long  as  I  live — never,  never!" 

"But  he  knew  how  you  cared;  he  must  have  known  it." 

"  I  don't  know — I  don't  know.  Oh,  Laura,  Laura,  you  are 
happier  than  I  am.  At  any  rate,  he — he  is  alive." 


LAURA  CREICHTON  271 

"If  I  knew!     If  only  I  knew!" 

The  two  wept  in  each  other's  arms.  In  some  strange  way, 
Lady  Creichton's  gentle  vagueness  had  rendered  her  un- 
approachable; or,  rather,  she  had  seemed  to  slip  away  and 
aside  from  all  responsibilities  and  depths;  but  she  had  greatly 
changed  since  her  husband's  death,  gathered  herself  together, 
become  at  once  more  human  and  more  efficient.  Gerald 
Stratton,  who  was  one  of  the  trustees,  her  men  of  business,  the 
relations,  scarcely  knew  her;  found  themselves  wondering 
whether  she  had  always  been  as  competent  as  she  now  showed 
herself.  "Playing  the  fool,"  as  her  own  brother  John  said, 
"to  save  the  trouble  of  fighting  things  out  with  that  dear  old 
stick,  Harry;  got  used  to  it  in  the  sort  of  way  some  women 
get  used  to  wearing  stays." 

However  this  might  be,  there  was,  with  so  much  to 
arrange,  less  "  arranging "  than  there  had  ever  been  before, 
and  the  two  girls  found  a  curiously  tolerant  friend  in  their 
mother.  Thus,  when  Laura  announced,  after  months  of  total 
silence  upon  this  subject,  that  she  was  going  up  to  town  to 
see  a  friend  of  her  husband's,  Lady  Creichton  merely 
remarked  that  she'd  better  take  an  umbrella,  "  as  it  might 
rain." 

She  took  the  umbrella  and  an  immense  bunch  of  early 
daffodils  and  went  by  bus;  on  the  top,  for  it  didn't  rain, 
though  it  was  cold — so  cold  that  it  braced  her;  the  wind 
seeming  to  cut  against  her  bare  skin,  as  though  her  coat  and 
furs  were  no  more  than  mere  filaments  of  the  imagination. 

For  no  reason  whatever  she  felt  younger  and  more  alive 
than  she  had  done  for  months:  full  of  hope,  ardour,  and 
determination.  If  Vortonitch  were  in  London,  she  must  find 
him.  How  stupid  to  be  proud  when  one  loved  a  person!  If 
one  was  married,  where  was  the  sense  of  pretending  that  one 
was  not  married?  She  had  shrunk  more  and  more,  as  time 
went  on,  from  seeking  out  the  Grobos,  had  a  feeling  as  though 
she  were  too  deeply  wounded,  sore  to  the  touch;  with  this 
there  was  that  idiotic  pride,  mingled  with  a  sense  of — "  He 
knows  where  I  am;  if  he  wants  to  see  me,  he  can  come  to  me. 
I  won't  go  making  enquiries  about  him  behind  his  back" — a 
sort  of  honour  as  well  as  pride. 

Quite  suddenly  this  was  all  wiped  out;  it  might  have  been 
the  effect  of  the  spring  which  made  these  ideas  seem  so  pre- 
posterous and  heavily  absurd. 

At  Piccadilly  Circus  she  got  off  her  bus,  stiff,  chilled  to  the 
bone,  and  yet  braced  as  though  by  a  cold  bath;  hesitated 


272  LAURA  CREICHTON 

for  a  moment  or  so  in  front  of  Swan  and  Edgar's  windows, 
then  crossed  the  Circus  to  Shaftesbury  Avenue,  stopping 
upon  the  centre  island  to  add  a  large  bunch  of  violets  to  her 
bouquet. 

She  had  on  a  new  grey  tweed  coat  and  skirt,  and  grey 
furs;  a  little  black  velvet  hat  tilted  over  her  eyes;  and — 
the  significance  of  this,  for  Laura! — the  coquetry,  the  evi- 
dence of  growing  up  to  youth,  as  it  were — a  short  veil  edged 
with  a  line  of  black  chenille,  just  tipping  her  nose,  intensifying 
her  fairness.  Her  height  attracted  attention,  and  people 
turned  and  looked  at  her  admiringly ;  she  was  "  in  form,"  "  in 
face,"  as  the  old  writers  have  it.  Just  for  that  short  while, 
and  for  no  reason  whatever,  she  felt  perfectly  sure  of  herself, 
full  of  confidence.  She  was  going  back,  back  to  real  life,  back 
to  her  husband;  for  of  course  the  Grobos  would  know  where 
he  was.  She  would  put  her  arms  round  him  and  draw  his 
head  down  to  her  shoulder,  where  he  had  loved  to  lay  it; 
nothing  should  separate  them  again;  nothing,  nothing. 

She  might  find  him  in  Le  Cygne  d'Or — there  was  no  know- 
ing. As  she  went  in,  her  back  would  be  to  the  light,  and  he 
would  not  see  who  it  was;  anyhow,  he  would  scarcely  know 
her — she  looked  prettier,  she  looked  different:  catching  sight 
of  herself  in  the  shop  windows,  it  seemed  that  she  looked 
completely  different,  more  finished,  somehow;  in  the  sidelong 
glances  of  the  passers-by  was  the  assurance  that  no  man 
would  ever  want  to  send  her  away  from  him  again.  She 
would  touch  Paul  on  the  shoulder,  and  say,  "  Good  evening, 
Mr.  Vortonitch,"  with  the  cool  assurance  of  those  other 
women.  What  a  lark  it  would  be! 

Or  perhaps  she  would  find  him  at  the  Grobos',  actually 
there  when  she  arrived,  sitting  by  the  window,  looking  child- 
ishly sad  and  tired,  as  he  sometimes  did;  looking  as  though 
he  wanted  her. 

She  walked  a  little  way  up  Shaftesbury  Avenue,  and  then, 
overcome  with  impatience,  hailed  a  taxi. 

With  the  idea  of  taking  a  short  cut,  apparently,  the  driver 
turned  off  into  Earl  Street,  and  was  blocked  and  blocked  again 
in  the  narrow  purlieus  of  Drury  Lane.  He  crossed  Holborn 
and  was  entangled  in  and  about  Gray's  Inn;  freed  himself  of 
these,  and  dipping  again  to  Holborn,  refusing  the  obvious 
Charterhouse  Road,  pushed  on  past  the  Viaduct;  then,  as  the 
resultant  of  a  sudden  impetuous  dart  to  the  left,  found  himself 
completely  entangled  in  the  meat  market,  where  Laura  got 
out  and  paid  him;  liking  him  because,  though  he  had  gone 


LAURA  CREICHTON  273 

completely  wrong,  he  had  not  hesitated,  but  dashed  on  in  a 
way  which  fitted  in  with  her  mood. 

"Queer  sort  of  place  to  bring  a  lady,"  he  remarked;  and 
she  laughed.  It  was  "  a  queer  sort  of  place  " — queerer  still  to 
be  so  glad  to  be  there,  horrible  as  it  was,  with  its  sickly  smell, 
its  red-faced  men  impregnated  with  beef,  its  appalling  din: 
voices  like  bulls  bellowing;  motor-lorries  hooting;  carts  with 
iron-bound  wheels  rattling  over  the  cobbles.  She  turned  into 
Little  Britain,  and  moved  slowly  along  it,  glancing  back  at 
the  peep  of  St.  Paul's  which  had  always  brought  her  peace; 
feeling  as  though  she  would  like  to  pat  all  those  little  shops 
where  she  had  once  made  her  frugal  purchases;  though  she 
would  not  look  at  the  house  where  she  had  lived,  the  house 
out  of  which  she  had  crawled  like  a  winter  fly,  wrung  with 
tears  and  misery;  getting  into  the  taxi  meekly  at  Stratton's 
side,  going  away  because  she  had  been  told  to  go  away.  She 
would  not  have  done  that  now;  she  was  a  woman  now,  full 
of  self-confidence — or  so  she  thought. 

She  turned  into  Charterhouse  Square  and  lingered  there 
for  a  few  moments;  the  plane-trees  were  in  bud;  the  school 
playground  alive  with  shouting  boys. 

It  wasn't  going  to  rain,  after  all ;  the  sun  was  out.  A  good 
thing,  for  she  had  left  her  umbrella  on  the  bus.  She  might 
see  Paul — she  would  see  Paul.  The  thought  sang  through  her 
head  like  a  sort  of  refrain  as  she  turned  into  the  short  narrow 
street  where  the  Grobos  lived:  had  lived. 

There  was  something  deliberately,  smirkingly  cruel  in  the 
sunshine,  in  that  feeling  of  joy  and  self-confidence  which  had 
been  growing  upon  her,  which  had  been  allowed  to  grow,  for 
the  sake  of  this.  It  was  like  a  face  offering  itself  to  you  for  a 
kiss,  with  a  striking  hand  darting  up  between;  or  a  kiss  itself, 
a  Judas  kiss,  betraying. 

If  it  had  not  been  that  she  approached  the  house  from  the 
far  side  of  the  road,  she  might  have  actually  gone  in  at  the  door 
and  up  the  first  flight  of  stairs:  she  could  not  have  gone  any 
further,  because  there  was  nothing  further,  nothing  whatever; 
she  would  have  just  toppled  over  into  nothingness.  In  any 
case,  she  supposed  the  policeman  would  have  stopped  her, 
hovering  there  round  the  scene  of  decay,  like  nothing  so  much 
as  a  stout  bluebottle.  But  as  it  was,  coming  up  the  further 
side  of  the  street,  she  saw  it  at  once,  saw  it,  but  could  not 
realise  it:  a  butt-end  of  a  house,  always  so  narrow,  but 
mutilated  now  as  though  some  savage  wit  had  been  seized 
with  the  idea  of  making  it  no  higher  than  it  was  broad: 


274  LAURA  CREICHTON 

roofless,  the  two  upper  storeys  and  part  of  the  one  beneath 
them  completely  gone;  the  ground  and  first-floor  heaped  in 
blackened  debris;  while  the  buildings  at  either  side  were  re- 
roofed  and  patched,  with  glaringly  new  red-brick  chimneys, 
the  workmen  still  engaged  upon  the  upper  window  of  the 
printer's,  from  whence  came  the  old,  dull,  familiar  roar. 

The  aspect  of  an  empty  bird's-nest  is  sad  enough:  to 
Laura's  eyes  there  was  something  desolate  beyond  words  in 
the  look  of  this  place,  in  her  memory  of  it  as  a  crowded  nest 
of  happy  children;  though  that  is  not  how  the  police  would 
have  described  it.  Quite  another  sort  of  nest — "a  nest  of 
anarchists"  was  what  they  said. 

Overcome  by  a  feeling  of  complete  bewilderment  and 
helplessness,  she  crossed  the  street.  The  policeman,  who  was 
watching  her,  moved  a  little  towards  her,  puzzled  by  such  a 
figure  in  such  a  place:  grey  coat  and  skirt,  grey  furs,  hands 
full  of  violets  and  daffodils;  an  air  of  breeding  and  finish  in 
the  way  she  walked,  in  the  turn  of  the  foot  and  ankle  beneath 
the  short  skirt. 

He  was  moving  past  her,  not  speaking,  just  watchful,  when 
she  turned  to  him. 

"Can  you  tell  me  what  .  .  ."  She  indicated  the  devas- 
tated house  with  a  gesture  of  despair;  then  turned  from  him 
and  stared  at  it  as  though  scarcely  able  to  believe  her  eyes. 
"Has  there  been  a  fire?  What  is  it?  I  expected  .  .  . 
thought  .  .  ."  She  broke  off,  too  utterly  taken  aback  to  put 
her  thoughts  into  words.  All  the  sureness  and  gaiety,  the 
grown-upness,  was  wiped  out  of  her;  as  she  shifted  her  gaze 
to  the  policeman  her  eyes  were  dark  wells  of  unshed  tears,  her 
face  white,  her  lips  trembling. 

"Yes,  Miss?"     It  was  a  question,  giving  nothing  away. 

"There  were  some  friends  of  mine,  living  there  on  the 
upper  floor.  I  thought — I  never  thought — I  heard  nothing." 

A  curiously  alert,  almost  avid,  look,  came  into  the  man's 
face;  he  set  his  lips  and  squeezed  up  his  little  round  eyes: 
"  What  was  the  name  of  the  party  you  was  looking  for,  if  I 
might  ask?" 

"  Grobo,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grobo  and  their  children.  I  knew 
nothing — I  heard  nothing — I  was  here  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  Miss?" 

"  Oh,  it's  a  year — yes,  a  year  ago."  Suddenly  her  own 
delay  and  cowardice  seemed  culpable  beyond  all  words:  why 
hadn't  she  come  before?  What  would  Lily  think  if  she  had 
known  of  it?  "Was  it  a  fire?  Was — was  there  anyone 


LAURA  CREICHTON  275 

hurt?"  that's  what  she  wanted  to  add,  but  she  dared  not 
put  it  into  words. 

"  Well,  not  exactly.  More  like  .  .  .  Well,  you  might  call 
it  a  sort  of  explosion,  more  like,  so  to  say,"  the  man  answered 
doubtfully;  wondering  what  he  should  do  next,  running  his 
mind  through  his  schedule  of  duties. 

"And  they — they  .  .  ."  Laura  could  hardly  speak;  the 
roof  of  her  mouth  was  dry,  her  lips  stiff.  A  warm,  vivid  pic- 
ture of  the  little  family,  above  all  of  Charles  and  Cora,  fat 
and  brown  and  rosy  as  any  country  children,  swept  over  her, 
blazed  round  with  horror,  the  memory  of  all  the  dreadful 
things  that  had  happened  since  she  saw  them  last.  Her  own 
father's  death,  for  instance.  Was  it  something — something 
like  that?  A  bomb?  A  "bomb" — what  a  stupid  word  that 
was,  so  soft  and  unimpressive,  and  yet  pregnant  with  sucli 
meaning ! 

With  an  effort  as  though  she  were  raising  some  immense 
weight,  she  began  again:  "Were — they — any  of  them — 
hurt?" 

The  policeman  gave  a  short  laugh.  "Hurt?  Not  them! 
Trust  them  for  that!  They'd  cleared  out  right  enough. 
Perhaps,  if  you  could  give  any  information,  Miss,  as  might 
help  the  authorities " 

But  Laura  had  no  information  to  give.  If  she  had  not 
thought  that  they  were  still  there,  would  she  have  come  here 
like  this,  laden  with  flowers?  She  was  utterly  bewildered, 
stricken  to  the  soul;  and  yet  a  little  reassured  by  the  police- 
man's apparently  benevolent  suggestion  that  they  might  be 
able  to  give  her  some  information  at  "the  Yard";  for  if 
she  could  once  find  the  Grobos,  there  were  hopes  for  news  of 
her  husband.  What  a  fool  she  had  been  not  to  realise  that 
long  before,  realise  all  that  they  meant  to  her!  With  them 
gone,  it  was  as  though  the  bottom  had  dropped  out  of  her 
world,  and  Paul  with  it;  as  though  he  had  suddenly  and 
completely  ceased  to  be  real. 

Having  summoned  another  man  to  take  his  place,  the 
policeman  took  her  off  in  a  taxi,  from  out  the  midst  of  a 
staring  group  of  children  who  seemed  to  have  sprung  up 
spontaneously  from  somewhere  between  the  cracks  of  the 
pavement,  all  eyes  and  mouths  and  boots. 

They  paid  for  the  taxi  at  Scotland  Yard,  and  she  thought  it 
was  very  kind  of  them,  when  she  had  come  about  her  own 
business;  as  she  had  thought  it  kind  of  the  policeman  to 
accompany  her.  In  her  old  way,  helpless  and  miserable,  she 


276  LAURA  CREICHTON 

caught  at  any  hint  of  kindness,  insanely  grateful  for  it;  telling 
herself,  "  People  are  kind." 

She  was  shown  into  a  small  room  smelling  of  soft  soap  and 
dampish  wood,  with  a  stool,  a  chair,  a  small  table  in  one 
corner,  and  a  large  writing-table  at  which  there  was  another 
policeman  sitting,  writing,  who  glanced  up  at  her,  and  then 
went  on  with  what  he  was  doing,  as  though  she  were  not  there. 

The  sun  was  hot  on  the  window,  which  was  shut,  with  a 
bluebottle  buzzing  up  and  down  the  lower  pane,  to  and  fro. 
to  and  fro,  likely  enough  the  reincarnation  of  some  long-dead 
policeman.  The  writer's  pen  scratched  and  spluttered;  he 
held  his  head  very  much  sideways  and  put  out  his  tongue  as 
he  wrote. 

Laura's  courage,  at  a  low  ebb  to  begin  with,  oozed  out  of 
her;  there  was  no  air  in  the  room,  and  she  felt  flattened, 
dulled,  beyond  hope. 

After  a  long,  long  wait,  to  which  there  seemed  no  reason 
for  any  end,  another  man,  in  a  different  sort  of  uniform,  came 
in,  and  with  a  curt  "Good  day,"  took  the  place  which  the 
scribe  relinquished  to  him,  while  Laura's  escort  stood  in  the 
doorway.  The  newcomer  picked  up  a  pen,  but  he  did  not 
write;  fixed  her  with  clear  blue  eyes  that  she  thought  kind. 

"You  mustn't  be  nervous,"  he  said;  "there's  nothing  to 
be  nervous  about.  Just  a  few  questions.  .  .  ." 

She  was  on  her  feet  at  this ;  those  questions  which  she  had 
been  rehearsing  over  to  herself  crowded  upon  the  tip  of  her 
tongue.  She  had  pulled  off  her  gloves,  and  one  slender  white 
hand  just  touched  the  table;  with  the  other  she  still  hugged 
the  drooping  flowers;  her  face  was  flushed,  her  eyes  glowed. 
"Yes,  please,  I  want  to  know — the  Grobos — I  want  to  see 
them.  I  thought  they  were  still  there.  I  never  thought  .  .  . 
and  I  found " 

"Yes,  yes.  A  moment,  if  you  please.  Your  name's 
Creichton,  I  believe?  Miss  Creichton?" 

"  Yes — no — not  really  .  .  ."  She  was  in  for  it  now.  The 
first  policeman  had  asked  her  name,  and  she  had  given  it 
without  thinking,  in  the  way  in  which  she  had  got  into  the 
habit  of  giving  it.  But  now  she  wanted  news  of  her  husband 
she  must  be  exact;  she  must  explain  things.  It  seemed  simple 
enough,  but  it  wasn't;  it  never  is,  for  of  all  arts  that  of 
explaining  is  the  most  difficult  in  the  world:  above  all,  ex- 
plaining away  anything  which  one  has  already  said;  especially 
a  name,  in  regard  to  which  most  people  are  primitive  enough 
to  entertain  a  certain  shame. 


LAURA  CREICHTON  277 

Laura  felt  her  face  grow  crimson,  burning  like  fire. 

"What  is  your  real  name,  then,  may  I  ask?  Try  and  be 
exact,  please."  The  blue  eyes  were  like  steel;  the  tone 
whipped  round  her. 

"Vortonitch — Mrs.  Vortonitch,"  he  repeated  her  words: 
"Wife  of  Paul  Vortonitch,  of— of  .  .  .  You  don't  know 
where?  Now,  Mrs.  Vortonitch,  be  careful  what  you  say;  this 
is  a  very  serious  matter.  You  don't  know  where  your  husband 
is?  You're  sure  of  that?  quite  sure?  Now,  when  did  you 
see  him  last?  Where? — the  exact  date,  please.  .  .  .  And 
this  man,  Grobo:  what  was  your  relation  with  him — his 
family?  .  .  .  Oh!  very  great  friends  of  yours,  you  say?  How 
long  since  you  saw  them?  A  year?  You're  sure  of  that? — 
a  year?"  It  went  on  and  on,  a  quick  succession  of  questions 
like  the  beat  of  a  hammer.  The  policeman  who  had  been 
there  when  she  first  entered  was  taking  down  her  answers  in 
a  notebook,  at  the  small  table  in  the  corner. 

She  had  to  stand,  because  he  had  her  chair;  her  legs  felt 
like  the  side  of  a  concertina,  pleating  up  beneath  her.  What 
did  they  suspect  her  of?  Why  were  they  so  curious  about 
Grobo?  about  her  husband?  When  she  said  that  she  was  a 
daughter  of  the  late  General  Sir  Harry  Creichton,  her  inter- 
rogator turned  to  the  policeman  who  accompanied  her,  and 
said:  "I  suppose  they're  on  the  'phone  at  the  late  General's 
place?  Better  make  enquiries,  eh?" 

That  roused  Laura  from  her  sense  of  being  utterly  battered 
down,  rapped  under.  She  could  not  have  her  mother 
frightened,  that  was  certain.  In  her  anxiety,  her  confusion, 
that  sense  of  running  up  against  a  blank  wall  which  comes  to 
a  person  whose  word  is,  for  the  first  time,  disbelieved,  she 
providentially  enough  thought  of  Stratton.  If  they  sent  for 
Mr.  Stratton,  he  would  tell  them  all  they  wanted  to  know. 

"Stratton — Stratton?  Who  might  he  be?"  enquired  the 
inspector  slightingly,  discounting  anyone  with  whom  Laura 
might  claim  acquaintance..  When  she  explained,  however,  the 
tone  was  altered;  and  remarking  that  this  was  enough  for  the 
present,  he  went  to  the  door;  spoke  to  someone  outside,  and 
came  back  considerably  chastened. 

They  rang  up  Stratton.  Mercifully  enough,  he  was  at  the 
House,  and  would  come  round  at  once.  The  policeman  who 
had  been  taking  notes  gave  Laura  back  her  chair  and  fetched 
a  stool  for  himself. 

The  hail  of  questions  had  ceased;  but  she  had  forgotten 
everything  which  she  herself  had  wished  to  ask.  If  this  was 


278  LAURA  CREICHTON 

the  way  they  treated  suspected  criminals,  how  was  it  possible 
for  anyone  to  emerge  as  innocent?  Great  waves  of  hot  shame 
went  through  and  through  her;  she  felt  stripped. 

When  Stratton  appeared  upon  the  scene,  she  could  hardly 
bear  to  look  at  him.  He  spoke  coolly  and  at  some  length. 
Laura  found  it  difficult  to  realise  what  was  being  said,  because 
it  felt  as  though  her  head  was  full  of  hot  cotton-wool  packed 
close  against  her  ears;  but  one  sentence  caught  her  attention 
so  that  it  came  back  to  her  later. 

"...  Any  possible  sources  of  information  regarding  this 
man  Grobo,  the  most  dangerous  of  the  whole  gang,  utterly 
unscrupulous.  Oh  yes,  clever — undoubtedly  clever!  Too 
clever  for  us,  I'm  afraid,  Mr.  Stratton.  Yes,  yes;  totally 
disappeared — not  a  trace.  We're  having  the  grave  of  that 
girl  of  his  who  died  watched — always  someone  there,  on  the 
chance  that  he  might  come  back  to  visit  it.  At  least,  that's 
what  our  chief  thought.  You'd  be  surprised  at  the  sentimen- 
tality of  people  of  that  type." 

There  was  an  apology  to  Laura:  "Greatly  regret  having 
put  you  to  any  inconvenience,  Miss  Creichton."  That  was 
what  was  said,  as  the  great  man  himself — and  he  was  a  great 
man  in  his  own  little  way,  for  other  men  stood  back  flat 
against  the  walls  of  the  corridors,  saluting  him  as  they  passed 
— held  the  taxi  door  open  for  her  and  Mr.  Stratton. 

For,  once  again,  she  was  being  borne  away  by  Stratton, 
away  back  to  Blackheath. 

He  took  the  flowers  from  her  hand  almost  violently,  and 
threw  them  out  of  the  taxi,  down  in  the  dust  among  the 
crowded  traffic  of  Westminster  Bridge. 

"Oh,  Laura,  Laura!"  he  said,  with  a  jerk  of  his  long 
chin,  as  though  he  at  once  loved  her  and  despaired  of  her; 
then,  looking  at  her  whimsically,  his  face  drawn  and  white: 
"Really,  Laura! — to  go  hanging  about  round  a  burnt-out 
wasps'  nest  like  that!  The  most  badly-wanted  man  in  the 
whole  of  Europe!  How  like  you,  Laura! — how  true  to  type!" 
He  spoke  with  the  only  real  exasperation  he  had  ever  shown 
towards  her:  "Ah,  well,  I  suppose,  if  I  was  a  convicted 
criminal,  or  deaf  and  dumb  and  blind,  or  anything  of  that 
sort  .  .  ." 

"But  you  knew,  Stratty,  you  knew  that  I  was  friends 
with  them!"  She  gazed  at  him  with  the  deepest  concern. 
What  was  the  matter  with  Stratty?  Was  everyone  going 
mad?  Was  there  some  contagious  tang  of  madness  in  that 
cell  where  they  had  cross-examined  her? 


LAURA  CREICHTON  279 

"I  thought  you'd  forgotten  them — I  thought  .  .  ." 
Stratton  broke  off  with  a  groan.  "  Oh,  God  only  knows  what 
I  thought! — that  you'd  forgotten  everything.  You're  so  quiet, 
Lolly.  You  seem  so  sure  and  safe;  and  yet,  was  there 
ever  anybody  on  earth  so  elusive!  If  you  were  my  wife,  I'd 
— tch,  tch!" 

"What?" 

"  Shake  you — smack  you." 

"But  I  don't  know — I  don't  know — how  can  I? — what 
people  expect  of  me,  what  they're  thinking.  And  now  .  .  . 
Oh,  I  don't  know,  I  don't  know!"  She  broke  off  the  sentence, 
which  had  no  meaning  to  her  own  mind,  and  was  silent  for  a 
moment,  her  white  lips  folded,  her  face  maturely  grave, 
looking  straight  in  front  of  her;  then  turned  to  Stratton. 

"What  made  him  call  me  'Miss  Creichton,'  like  that,  at 
the  last?" 

"  I  suppose  he  thought  it  was  best." 

"But  I'm  not  Miss  Creichton!"  She  spoke  with  sudden 
passion,  the  blood  flooding  into  her  face.  "  I'm  not — I'm 
not!  I  never  can  be  again.  It's  time  everybody  knew  it;  I 
expect  they  do  know  it,  but  if  they  don't,  they'll  have  to 
know  it,"  she  added  firmly.  "There's  been  enough  of  this 
pretending." 

"  Laura,  it's  best  not.     Believe  me,  it's  best  not." 

"I  don't  care  what's  best.  That's  what  I've  done  all 
along — let  things  slide,  tried  to  please  everyone." 

"But  you  do  care  what's  best  for — for  him." 

"How  do  you  mean,  'for  him'?"  She  bent  round  towards 
Stratton,  staring  at  him,  frowning. 

"Well,  you  know,  just  for  the  present,  as  a  friend  of 
Grobo's;  it  might  make  everything  more  difficult  for  him,  if 
there  was  any  talk,  anything  like  that." 

"But  I  want  to  feel  sure  of — of  things.  Stratty,  it  seems 
as  if  by  acknowledging  him  I'll  make  it  all  more  real;  make 
him  real;  bring  him,  bring  him  .  .  ."  Her  voice  broke,  she 
was  staring  in  front  of  her. 

"Yes,  dear?" 

"  Oh,  but  I  want  to  see  him,  more — more  than  anything  on 
earth  I  want  to  see  him!" 

Her  face  was  grey;  she  looked  almost  old;  her  hat  was  a 
little  on  one  side,  with  the  coquettish  veil  flung  back,  all  any- 
how; her  hair  disordered:  she  was  wiped  out  with  misery, 
as  blonde  women  are.  The  people  who  had  turned  for  another 
look  at  her  crossing  Piccadilly  Circus,  thinking,  "  That  girl's 


280  LAURA  CREICHTON 

like  spring,"  would  not  have  given  her  so  much  as  a  second 
glance  now. 

Stratton  was  filled  with  a  sense  of  desperate  revolt  at  the 
sight  of  her.  She  had  seemed  to  be  reviving,  forgetting. 
Seemed  to  be — seemed  to  be!  These  women!  Were  they  all 
the  same,  with  the  sort  of  motion  of  a  boomerang,  eternally 
harking  back?  That  cad  Vortonitch!  Good  God!  to  think 
of  a  country  packed  with  laws,  so  many  that  it  was  impossible 
to  remember  one  half  of  them — laws  against  every  sort  of  theft, 
and  not  one  against  the  worst  crime  of  all,  this  theft  of  youth ! 

"Lolly,  dear,  wait  a  little  longer;  go  on  as  you  are  for  a 
little  longer.  You  see  for  yourself  how  any  connection  with 
Grobo  might  hurt  him  now.  Just  a  little  longer.  Everything 
comes  to  those  who  wait." 

"Or  else,  I  suppose,  they  wait  so  long  that  they  forget 
what  they're  waiting  for,"  answered  Laura,  with  a  sombre  and 
unnatural  fatalism. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

LAURA  was  "coining  out."  The  term,  as  applied  to  a 
woman  who  had  been  married  a  year  and  a  half  earlier,  was 
absurd,  the  whole  idea  was  absurd.  But,  changed  as  she  might 
be  in  many  ways,  Lady  Creichton  still  preserved  that  in- 
tractable obstinacy  of  the  meek  in  spirit;  and,  after  all,  she  was 
right.  "  What  Laura  needs  is  a  break  of  some  sort,"  was  what 
she  said;  and  so  events  proved;  for  Laura  had  slipped  into  a 
rut  of  dullish  indifference,  there  was  no  doubt  about  that. 

"As  she's  not  altogether — well,  not  altogether  quite — not 
seeming  altogether  quite  married,  the  thing  is  to  go  on  as 
much  as  possible  as  if  she  wasn't."  This  was  the  foundation 
of  Lady  Creichton's  idea,  so  confusedly  expressed,  so  un- 
swervingly held  to. 

And,  after  all,  why  shouldn't  Laura  be  brought  out  of 
herself,  and  into  society?  For,  whatever  marriage  had  done 
for  her,  it  had  not,  most  emphatically,  done  that;  while, 
though  it  had  originally  been  intended  that  she  should  make 
her  formal  debut  at  the  end  of  May  nineteen  twenty-one — 
an  arrangement  cancelled  by  her  father's  death  and  what 
her  mother  called  "  things " — she  was,  in  the  spring  of 
nineteen  twenty-two,  still  three  months  short  of  her  twentieth 
birthday,  an  age  at  which  a  great  many  girls  were  only  just 
leaving  school. 

Marjorie,  it  is  true,  was  closer  upon  her  heels  by  a  year 
than  she  would  have  been  in  the  original  programme;  but  this 
did  not  greatly  matter,  seeing  that  the  whole  business  of 
"  coming  out "  at  eighteen  had  been  planned  to  give  Laura 
that  "  chance  "  which  might  have  been  interefered  with  by  the 
public  appearance  of  her  more  exuberant  sister:  the  word 
"  chance "  standing  for  marriage,  which  was  now  counted 
out;  or  in  some  measure  counted  out,  for  it  would  have  been 
impossibe  for  Lady  Creichton  to  rid  herself  of  the  belief  that 
Vortonitch's  disappearance  would,  by  its  very  persistence — 
and  almost  automatically — become  permanent;  while  here  was 
Philip  Henderson,  such  a  nice  boy,  and  with  prospects,  still 
as  unswervingly  devoted  as  ever. 

281 


282  LAURA  CREICHTON 

There  was  the  question  of  Presentation;  but  against  this 
Laura  herself,  more  or  less  acquiescent  in  the  rest  of  the 
arrangement,  rebelled,  calling  Stratton  to  help  her  with  his 
unquestionable  veto :  the  thing  was  out  of  the  question  because 
of  the  difficulty  of  the  name.  Under  what  name  would  it  be 
possible  to  present  her?  Was  she  to  appear  as  a  debutante 
or  a  young  married  woman? 

In  the  end  it  came  to  this :  "  The  House  "  was  to  be  shut 
up  for  a  while;  Lady  Creichton,  in  half -mourning,  in  every 
sort  of  way — so  completely  that  Laura  found  herself  wonder- 
ing whether  that  scene  in  her  bedroom  had  been  a  dream,  or 
whether  her  mother  had  merely  shrugged  herself  back  into  an 
outer  garment  of  gentle  and  half-humourous  tepidity — was  to 
stay  with  a  widowed  sister  at  Tunbridge  Wells,  where  there 
were  a  good  many  other  widows;  while  Marjorie  returned  for 
another  term  to  Switzerland,  and  Laura  spent  the  time  seeing 
things,  and  being  taken  out  by  Stratton 's  sister —  the  wife  of  a 
jaded  peer  with  blood  as  thin  and  blue  as  London  milk,  a 
trifle  soured — who  lived  in  Pont  Street,  and  had  rather  a 
managing  fancy  for  young  people,  being  deeply  interested  in 
Laura — "That  romantic  child;  and  that  great  donkey,  Gerald, 
as  much  in  love  as  a  boy  of  eighteen.  Little  wonder,  either. 
Did  you  ever  see  anything  prettier!  The  way  she  holds 
herself,  the  way  she  walks,  so  lightly  and  uprightly;  that 
lovely  silvery  fairness,  which  really  does  pay  for  dressing!  I 
wonder  what  will  happen  .  .  .  Now  I  do  wonder  what  will 
happen.  What  do  you  think,  Filson? — eh,  Filson?" — She 
would  appeal  to  her  husband,  though  entirely  unbiassed  by 
his  answer,  which  went  no  further  than  grunting,  stretching 
out  his  long  thin  legs  in  their  pale-grey,  wonderfully-creased 
trousers,  and  drawing  them  up  again  like  a  praying  mantis. 

As  to  Laura,  she  was  at  first  just  that — "acquiescent"; 
wondering,  perhaps  a  little  priggishly,  what  girls  found  so 
exciting  about  this  business  of  a  London  season;  for  after  all 
those  threats  of,  those  more  than  threats,  those  lunges  at, 
revolution,  everything  was  going  on  in  much  the  same  old 
way.  Lady  Filson  was,  however,  so  immensely  and  almost 
breathlessly  engrossed  in  the  interest  of  the  moment — the 
interest  for  the  time  being  Laura,  and  nothing  and  nobody  but 
Laura — that  she  found  herself  gradually  drawn  into  it  all: 
forgetting  to  think  what  Vortonitch  would  have  thought  of  it, 
delighting  in  her  pretty  clothes,  dancing  for  the  first  time  for 
two  years;  dancing,  not  as  a  child,  but  as  a  grown-up  person, 
a  personage  in  some  slender  way,  partly  because  of  that 


LAURA  CREICHTON  283 

distinctive  fashion  in  which  she  held  herself,  and  partly 
because  there  was  without  doubt,  a  sense  of  mystery.  It  was 
now  that  she  might  have  been  almost  inclined  to  forget  that 
she  was  married  at  all,  had  it  not  been  for  those  sudden 
chilling  gaps  in  conversations  and  confidences  which  would 
come  upon  her  all  of  a  sudden,  as  they  will  upon  anyone  who 
has  anything  to  hide;  pulling  her  up  sharply,  making  her 
feel  very  old  and  very  out  of  it  all.  Old,  and  yet  in  some 
contradictory  way  younger  than  most  of  these  laughing, 
chaffing,  flirting  boys  and  girls,  for  the  reason  that  she  had  no 
sort  of  an  axe  to  grind,  that  her  pleasure  was,  and  must  be, 
so  entirely  simple. 

For  there  could  be  no  flirtations  for  Laura,  no  endeavour 
to  attract  anyone  in  particular,  no  plans  for  the  future.  She 
discovered  a  sense  of  youthful  delight,  which  she  could  never 
have  believed  possible  for  herself,  in  the  amusements  of  which 
she  had  hitherto  tasted  nothing  whatever,  a  naive  joy  in  the 
very  motion  of  dancing,  in  the  sound  of  the  music,  in  the 
crowds  in  the  Park,  in  tennis  at  Ranelagh;  and  yet  a  joy 
which  was  totally  different  from  that  of  the  other  girls  with 
whom  she  was  friends  in  so  far  that  she  showed  herself  an 
untiring  recipient  of  confidence,  listening  with  patience  to  all 
the:  "He  said,"  "He  looked,"  "He  was  waiting  there,  and  I 
said,"  "  Silly,  sentimental  sort  of  ass,  but  still,"  "  Ra-a-ther 
nice,  don't  you  think?  and  frightfully  in  earnest,"  "  I  always 
said  that  when  I  am  married,"  "  Of  course  there's  no  sentiment 
about  us,  but  I  do  think— don't  you  think  .  .  ."  "Stacks, 
simply  stacks  of  boys,  but  none  of  the  others,"  etc.,  etc. 
Until,  all  this  exhausted,  they,  the  other  girls,  would  go  away 
and  remember  that  Laura  Creichton  had  told  them  nothing 
whatever  of  herself:  that  Laura  Creichton  might  be  their 
friend,  but  they  did  not  know  in  the  very  least  if  they  were 
hers.  While  the  "  boys "  themselves,  admiring  what  Lady 
Filson  described  as  her  "sylph-like  airs,"  found  themselves 
growing  shy  and  ill  at  ease  in  the  realisation  of  a  gentle  aloof- 
ness, which  was  too  timid  for  pride  and  yet  never  quite  timid 
enough  to  give  itself  away :  "  elusive,"  that's  what  the  older 
ones,  with  a  better  command  of  language,  called  her,  for  the 
chaperone  had  been  right  in  the  use  of  that  word  "  sylph," 
though  "nai'ad"  might  have  been  better. 

Sometimes,  coming  upon  her  afresh  at  a  dinner-party  or 
at  the  theatre,  seeing  her  at  a  dance,  Stratton  found  himself 
wondering  what  she  really  was:  Laura,  so  seemingly  simple, 
and  yet  so  complicated;  totally  unable  to  reconcile  this 


284  LAURA  CREICHTON 

Laura,  in  those  filmy,  floating  draperies  of  silver,  palest  blues 
and  greens  which  his  sister  and  the  dressmaker  had  decided 
upon  for  her,  with  that  other  Laura,  pale  and  grave  and 
shabby,  whom  he  had  seen  engrossed  in  her  sordid  duties  in 
those  unspeakable  attic-rooms  in  Little  Britain:  that  Laura 
of  despair  and  sadness  and  infinite  weariness:  Laura  of  the 
shoddy  serge  and  dowdy  little  felt  hat,  all  on  one  side,  hunched 
together  in  the  corner  of  his  motor  that  day  he  took  her 
"home,"  as  he  said;  "away,"  as  she  said. 

Sometimes  he  wondered  if  she  had  a  soul,  if  any  of  these 
really  sweet  women  had  souls;  then,  at  the  back  of  her  slight 
smile  as  she  listened  to  some  boyish  partner — always,  as  it 
seemed,  on  a  lower  seat,  looking  up  at  her,  sitting  very  upright 
in  a  way  she  had,  with  her  slender  bare  arms  hanging,  showing 
the  silvery  blue-veined  whiteness  of  their  inner  side — he  would 
realise  a  sort  of  far-away  sadness  and  patience,  as  the  back- 
ground to  an  enjoyment  which  was  never  quite  happiness; 
a  patience  which  was,  as  he  well  knew,  the  explanation  of  a 
bitter  complaint  he  overheard  from  one  of  her  most  faithful 
partners : 

"Of  course  you  think  I'm  an  awful  ass — better  shut  up, 
sort  of  thing.  All  the  same,  if  you  weren't  so  frightfully  nice 
about  it  all,  it  wouldn't  matter  half  so  much.  Sorter  rubbing 
it  in,  you  know." 

She  was  "nice  about  it,"  nice  about  everything,  and  to 
everyone.  It  exasperated  Stratton,  because  it  seemed  at 
times  as  though  she  were  trying  to  make  up  for  something, 
trying  to  give  all  she  could  to  make  up  for  what  she 
withheld. 

After  all,  however,  he  had  less  to  complain  of  than  anyone, 
for  he  alone  of  her  entire  world  had  her  confidence — though 
even  this  was  not  altogether  consoling:  "Looks  on  me  as 
such  a  complete  old  fogey  that  nothing  matters,"  that's  what 
he  said:  complaining  to  his  sister,  and  to  no  one  else,  for  he 
could  count  upon  her  to  contradict  him. 

One  thing  there  was  which  scared  Laura,  sent  her  straight 
to  him,  and  that  was  a  proposal.  She  had  more  than  one 
during  that  short  season,  and  they  terrified  her;  gave  her  a 
dreadful  feeling  of  being  smirched.  "  You  shouldn't  let  them 
get  so  far,"  that  was  what  Stratton  said,  hating  it  almost  as 
much  as  she  did. 

"Oh,  but,  Stratty,  I  never  think  about  it!  Don't  you  see 
that  I  never  can  think  about  it?  And  then  it's  upon  me,  in  a 
moment  .  .  .  Boys,  the  merest  boys,  laughing  and  ragging 


LAURA  CREICHTON  285 

the  instant  before,  and  then — like  that!     It  makes  me  feel 
awful,  Stratty;  awful!" 

"But  you  ought  to  be  prepared;  you  ought  to  think  of 
it." 

"But  I  can't,  I  can't.  How  could  I? — And  even  if  I 
could — such  infants!" 

"  As  old,  and  older  than  you  are,  I'll  be  bound." 

"I  don't  know — perhaps,  oh  yes,  in  years.  But  years 
are  nothing;  I  feel  a  thousand  times  more  the  same  sort  of 
age  that  you  are.  Why,  I'd  a  thousand  times  rather " 

"What?" 

She  reddened.  "  If — well,  if  I  wasn't  married,  if  I  had  to 
marry — well,  someone  more  like  you — comfortable.  I'm 
not  really  young,  you  know,  Stratty,"  she  added  with  an  odd 
pathos.  "  I  suppose  I  look  young,  and  I  play  at  being 
young  .  .  .  Oh  yes,  I  love  it  all.  Sometimes  I  love  it  just 
because  it  makes  me  forget  things;  and  then" — her  voice 
dropped — "  I'm  ashamed  of  forgetting,  of  pretending  to 
forget." 

"Laura,  ,do  you  really  want  him  back?" 

The  words  were  out  of  Stratton's  mouth  before  he  even 
thought  of  them,  and  for  a  moment  he  was  panic-stricken,  not 
knowing  in  the  least  how  she  would  take  them;  for  despite  her 
girlishness  Laura  was,  always  had  been,  one  of  those  people 
with  whose  inmost  thoughts  one  is  actually  afraid  to  tamper. 

They  were  sitting  under  the  trees  at  Ranelagh;  it  was  close 
upon  seven  o'clock  and  the  shadows  were  lengthening;  long 
velvety  shadows,  like  the  veils  of  night  laid  out  ready  upon 
the  grass;  the  scent  of  freshly- watered  flowers  was  in  the 
air;  peacocks  were  slowly  revolving  with  spread  tails  in  the 
slanting  strips  of  sunshine  which  cut  in  between  the  tree- 
trunks.  Stratton  had  a  vivid  impression  of  it  all,  as  sensitive 
people  do  have  of  those  scenes  which  seem  set  clear  for  the 
memorising  of  certain  moments,  certain  words  that  matter: 
"  I've  done  for  myself  now,"  he  thought,  with  no  idea  of 
comparison  between  himself,  his  position,  and  this  chit  of 
nineteen. 

Laura  was  looking  away  from  him,  with  her  hands  folded. 
She  did  not  turn,  and  her  silence  continued  for  so  long  that 
his  obstinate  decision  to  let  the  question  stand  was  well-nigh 
broken,  and  he  was  formulating  a  sort  of  apology,  when:  "I 
want  him  back;  I  really  want  him  back,"  she  said.  "Some- 
times I  want  him  back,  so  that  I  hardly  know  how  to  bear  it; 
and  then — then  I  get  scared,  Stratty." 


286  LAURA  CREICHTON 

"Scared  of  what,  Lolly?" 

"  Of  myself,  of  him — of  both  ourselves.  I've  grown  a  lot 
you  see;  perhaps  that's  it.  I've  gone  on  growing  while  he's 
been — since  I  saw  him.  1  suppose" — she  spoke  slowly  and 
hesitatingly,  as  though  she  were  trying  to  clear  things  up  in 
her  own  mind — "  I  suppose  he's  gone  on  growing,  too,  in  some 
ways — of  course  he  has.  But  I — it  frightens  me  sometimes  to 
realise  how  I've  changed." 

"How  do  you  mean,  Lolly?" 

"  Well,  I  suppose  it's  like  this.  I  used  to  think  everything 
must  be  wonderful  and  right  if  I  didn't  understand  it;  if — it 
— it  was  different.  I  used  to  feel  so  awfully  silly  and  ignorant; 
I  daresay  that  was  it.  I  don't  know  if  I  should  feel  like  that 
now — about  the  wonderfulness  of  things.  I  don't  know.  I 
can't  feel  sure,  and  it  frightens  me.  I  don't  seem  to  think  of 
it  much,  I  suppose,  but  I  do  think  of  it;  I'm  always  thinking 
of  it,  at  the  back  of  me." 

"  How  do  you  mean?" 

"  If  he  came  back,  and  I  didn't  .  .  .  Oh,  Stratty,  it  seems 
awful  to  say  so — and  when  I  long  for  him  so,  long  and  ache, 
just  the  look  of  him,  the  sound  of  his  voice,  the  ways  he  had 
of  taking  things — but  if  he  did  come  back,  and  I  didn't  think 
him  wonderful,  like  I  used  to  do,  a  sort  of — don't  laugh  at 
me;  it's  true,  it's  what  I  did  feel — a  sort  of  wonderful  child, 
we  wouldn't  be  happy;  we're — we're,  oh,  so  awfully  different. 
There  are  things  one's  been  taught  that  don't  seem  to  matter 
at  first — one  doesn't  notice  them;  if  one  did,  one  would  be — 
oh,  well,  sort  of  pleased  at  everything  being  so  different — 
different,  that's  all  one  seems  to  want  when  one's  very  young. 
But  later — oh,  I  don't  know,  but  perhaps  things  go  deeper 
than  one  thinks;  they  stick,  and  then  they  come  out." 

"What  sort  of  things?" 

"I  don't  know,  but  .  .  .  Oh,  English  sort  of  things;  all 
the  silly  little  things  that  don't  really  matter.  If  I  didn't  love 
him  dreadfully  and  altogether — Stratty,  it's  horrible  of  me, 
but  that's  what  I'm  like;  I  suppose  it's  because  I  know  so  little 
— but  if  I  didn't — didn't  love  him  altogether,  I  mean,  we 
wouldn't — we  wouldn't  be  happy;  we  couldn't  just  half -care, 
either  of  us.  I'm  afraid  of  him  never  coming  back  again,  so 
afraid  that  when  I  think  of  it  it  seems  to  leave  me  all  hollowed- 
out;  and  then  I'm  afraid — oh,  frightfully  afraid  of  him 
coming,  and  me — me — well  " — her  voice  dropped  to  a  whisper 
— "  sort  of  failing  him." 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

LAURA  had  been  to  tea  in  Queen  Anne's  Gate,  and  was 
walking  across  St.  James's  Park  to  join  Lady  Filson  at  her 
club  in  Piccadilly,  where  she  had  been  giving  a  reception  to  a 
party  of  Continental  women  writers.  It  had  been  raining 
early  in  the  day,  but  now  the  sun  was  shining  and  CYerything 
exquisitely  freshened;  the  air  in  the  hollows  and  around  the 
lake  filmed  with  a  sunshot  mist. 

It  was  one  of  those  evenings  when  London  and  her  parks 
has  a  peculiar,  almost  mystic  beauty  of  her  own.  Despite  the 
rain  it  had  been  very  hot,  and  Laura  moved  languidly,  with 
the  feeling  of  being  in  a  pleasant  dream;  unwilling  to  change 
the  odorous  air,  the  golden  lights  and  velvet-like  shadows  of  the 
trees  for  the  stuffy  and  ejaculatory  cackle  of  a  second  tea-party. 

Just  before  she  came  to  the  bridge,  walking  slowly  and 
circuitously  so  as  to  keep  as  much  as  possible  to  the  grass,  she 
almost  brushed  past  a  man  who  jumped  up  from  a  chair  and 
spoke  her  name. 

"Laura!" 

It  was  Vortonitch.  Laura's  first  feeling  was  one  of  almost 
incredulous  amazement;  not  so  much  at  seeing  him  there  as 
at  him  being  what  he  was.  "My  husband?"  The  words 
passed  through  her  mind,  a  question  more  than  an  assertion. 
But  even  then  they  meant  nothing  to  her;  she  could  not  make 
them  mean  anything:  it  was,  indeed,  as  though  they  were 
applied  to  someone  else.  In  that  fraction  of  a  moment  she 
saw  him  no  longer  as  her  wonderful  child,  but  as  a  shabby, 
infinitely  wearied  and  almost  middle-aged  man. 

She  saw  everything,  with  frightful,  cruel  vividness  and 
surprise,  a  dreadful  sort  of  shame:  his  hair  a  little  too  long, 
his  hollow  cheeks  none  too  recently  shaved;  the  sort  of  tie 
and  collar  which  he  wore,  all  wrong  and  none  too  fresh;  his 
clothes,  his  shoes,  shabby  and  in  need  of  brushing.  For  there 
are  these  sudden  poisonous  rifts  in  love;  moments  of  the 
bitterest  criticism.  It  had  been  like  that  with  Lady  Creichton 
when  she  had  first  realised  her  husband  moving  his  head  like 
a  tethered  mule. 

287 


288  LAURA  CREICHTON 

It  was  over  in  a  breath,  swept  under  by  a  surging  wave  of 
warm  love  and  tenderness.  She  had  passed — so  nearly  passed 
— so  close  that  he  was  actually  standing  in  front  of  her  as  he 
rose.  He  did  not  attempt  to  touch  her;  his  hands  were 
hanging  at  his  side;  his  shoulders  were  bent;  his  chest  hollow: 
he  was  thin — oh,  dreadfully,  dreadfully  thin!  And  he  was 
changed,  too;  there  was  a  look  of  uncertainty,  nervous  strain 
upon  his  face;  all  the  buoyancy  was  gone. 

"Laura,"  he  said  again;  and  then,  "Oh,  Laura!"  And 
at  that  both  her  hands  went  out  to  him,  her  child  and  lover. 

"Paul,  Paul!  Where  have  you  been?  Paul,  my  dear, 
my  dear,  what  have  they  done  to  you?" 

It  was  an  instinctive  cry — "What  have  they  done  to 
you?"  In  that  moment  there  was  no  thought  of  anyone 
special  attached  to  it;  though  later  he*  mind  turned  to 
Grobo,  for  it  seemed  plain  that  something  had  literally  "  been 
done":  that  no  completely  free  man  could  have  worn  an 
aspect  at  once  so  harried  and  wretched.  Wretched!  Vor- 
tonitch,  who  had,  in  his  own  way,  gloried  in  everything  which 
came  to  him. 

There,  indeed,  was  the  change  in  him,  that  it  was  which 
pulled  him  down:  not  his  shabby  clothes,  but  that  air  of 
something  almost  furtive. 

"Wretched!  Wretched!"  Oh,  but  it  was  heart-breaking! 
Laura  caught  his  arm  in  both  hands  and  clung  to  it,  mur- 
muring over  him.  In  a  sort  of  maze  and  desperate  love 
and  sorrow,  for  strangely  enough  there  was  no  joy  in  this 
meeting,  they  found  a  couple  of  chairs  and,  pulling  them 
close  together,  sat  shoulder  to  shoulder,  drawing  life  from 
each  other,  as  in  the  old  days. 

It  seemed  to  Laura,  indeed,  as  if  the  blood  flowing  through 
their  veins  was  common  to  them  both;  the  colour  rose  in 
Vortonitch's  cheeks,  as  though  actually  fed  from  hers;  for 
with  all  their  differences,  her  cold-seeming  diffidence,  his  own 
carelessness  and  cruelties,  there  could  have  been  no  two  people 
more  completely  mated. 

In  one  moment,  when  no  one  was  actually  near  to  them — 
not  that  it  mattered,  for  it  didn't;  nothing,  nothing  mattered, 
apart  from  this — their  lips  met  in  a  long  kiss.  His  arm  was 
frankly  about  her;  they  were  like  any  other  couple,  com- 
pletely forgetful  of  that  difference  of  caste  which  is  so 
marked  by  the  lower  classes'  objection  to  be  seen  eating, 
and  the  upper  classes'  objection  to  be  seen  making  love  in 
public. 


LAURA  CREICHTON  289 

"Paul,  Paul!" 

"Laura — my  Laura!"  At  first  this  was  all.  It  was  all 
that  Vortonitch  wanted  it  to  be;  wrapt  away  from  all  his 
troubles — the  almost  prophetic  sense  of  impending  disaster 
which  had  been  weighing  him  down — by  that  sense  of  restful- 
ness  which  Laura  alone  brought  to  him. 

Once  again,  as  so  often  before,  he  said  to  himself:  "This 
is  all  I  want,  all  I  ever  can  want."  And  yet,  for  weeks  and 
months  upon  end  he  had  completely  forgotten  her  very  exist- 
ence; long  intervals,  interspersed  with  moments  of  passionate 
longing,  or  hurt  vanity,  when  he  would  say  to  himself, 
"Laura  would  know  better;  Laura  is  the  only  one  who  ever 
understood  me";  other  periods  of  depression  and  sickness, 
when  he  had  wanted  nothing  and  nobody  else  upon  earth;  and 
still  later  on,  curious  blank  spaces  of  almost  reasonless  fear, 
when  it  seemed  that  there  would  have  been  safety  in  the  mere 
possession  of  anything  so  completely  his  own. 

But  Grobo  had  said,  "Wait,"  and  he  had  waited;  though 
it  was  not  mere  obedience  to  a  power  which  grew  and  grew 
over  him — a  hold  that  every  move  he  made  to  shake  it  off 
served  but  to  tighten — nor  was  it  the  excitements  and  triumphs 
of  his  career,  the  intoxication  of  a  peculiar  power  over  life  and 
death,  which  had  made  him  hold  away;  it  was  all  these,  and 
yet  at  the  same  time  it  was  something  better  than  these,  that 
feeling  which  had  come  to  him  with  his  marriage  of  hating  to 
have  Laura  mixed  up  with  the  more  turgid  events  of  his  life; 
for,  with  that  odd  streak  of  naivete  which  ran  through  his 
entire  character,  he  still  thought  of  retiring,  as  simply  as  any 
grocer  might  do.  He  had  thought  of  it  before,  but  he  had  been 
too  full  of  life  then;  he  was  getting  tired  now,  desperately 
tired;  his  nerves  were  giving  way;  his  heart  played  odd  tricks 
with  him.  When  he  looked  back  over  the  last  year  and  a 
half,  he  was  amazed  at  himself,  full  of  admiration. 

"How  the  devil  did  I  dare?"  was  what  he  asked  himself; 
endeavouring  to  forget  all  that  still  lay  before  him. 

He  had  returned  from  the  Continent  a  week  earlier;  but 
he  had  made  no  attempt  to  see  his  wife,  or  even  obtain  any 
news  of  her,  though  restless  with  longing  as  he  had  never  been 
on  any  of  his  previous  visits  home — odd  how  he  had  thought 
of  England  like  this  ever  since  his  marriage!  But  the  fact 
was  that  old  desire  to  feel  settled — with  a  grinning  imp  of 
doubt  still  at  the  back  of  it  all — was  strong  upon  him;  while 
he  was  epicure  enough  to  feel  he  would  rather  wait  and  have 
everything  at  once,  in  its  full  sweetness. 


290  LAURA  CREICHTON 

"  Just  this"  Grobo  had  said,  "  and  then,  my  dear,  you 
will  'ave  proved  yourself;  without  doubt  you  will  'ave  proved 
yourself.*' 

If  it  had  been  like  that  before:  "Only  this  once,  an'  you 
shall  return  to  your  so  charming  wife."  Then,  again,  "  Only 
this  once."  It  had  gone  on  and  on;  at  first  Vortonitch  had 
not  cared,  for  every  fresh  move  had  been  full  of  fresh  excite 
ment.  But  now  everything  was  getting  too  difficult,  and  he 
had  a  sense  of  being  continually  harried  and  watched;  for 
the  conscience,  not  of  one  country  alone,  but  of  the  whole  of 
Europe,  was  against  him  and  his,  because,  instead  of  making 
things  more  comfortable  for  the  community,  they  had  made 
them  more  uncomfortable. 

It  was  not  Vortonitch  alone  who  was  tired  of  it;  the  few 
"comrades"  left  to  them  had  had  enough,  and  more  than 
enough;  for  the  saner  masses  of  Europe,  realising  these 
swarming  agitators  as  a  species  of  malarial  mosquitoes, 
realising  also  that  there  is  neither  rest  nor  work  possible  to 
men  with  their  blood  forever  stung  to  fever-heat,  had  started 
out  upon  an  organised  scheme  of  repression. 

It  was  now  Grobo,  and  Grobo  only — Grobo,  risen  to  the 
topmost  rung  of  his  profession,  by  the  dropping  away  of  so 
many  around  and  about  him — who  kept  them  in  any  wise 
together;  running  a  trail  of  blood,  holding  them  with  their 
noses  to  it,  with  a  passionate  consistency  of  aim  which,  as 
time  went  on,  became  more  and  more  a  hallucination  of 
personal  power:  "Kill,  kill — go  on  killing,  and  then  who  will 
be  left?  I— I!" 

It  was  strange  that  the  fire  within  him  failed  to  consume, 
melting  away  that  fat  at  which  Vortonitch  had  so  often 
mocked;  for  he  was  plump  and  outwardly  smiling  as  ever, 
though  even  less  open  to  compassion.  Vortonitch,  indeed, 
had  an  idea  that  if  he  were  unable  to  destroy  members  of  any 
royal  family,  statesmen  of  worth,  military  authorities,  indus- 
tries, princes  of  industry,  he  was  glad,  positively  glad,  when 
one  of  his  own  kind  perished  in  the  attempt;  and  that  was 
why  he  was  pushing  him,  Vortonitch,  on  and  on  to  under- 
takings of  which  each  was  more  dangerous  than  the  last. 

He  had  once  seen  a  black  panther  in  the  London  Zoological 
Gardens,  kept  in  a  cage  behind  the  scenes,  for  the  reason  that, 
if  it  was  confronted  with  human  beings,  and  unable  to  get  at 
them,  it  would  gnaw  its  own  tail,  overcome  by  a  blood-thirst 
which  over-ruled  pain. 

Grobo  was  like  this,  more  and  more  like  this  as  time  went 


LAURA  CREICHTON  291 

on,  and  he  felt,  as  he  must  have  felt,  the  range  of  his  powers 
diminishing.  Sometimes  Vortonitch  wondered  if  he  would 
even  hesitate  to  sacrifice  Albert,  who,  relinquishing  all  pre- 
tence of  being  a  child,  swam  with  his  father — the  pilot  fish 
with  the  shark. 

Vortonitch  had  taken  supper  in  a  little  cafe  in  Buda-Pesth 
with  the  two  of  them  immediately  before  he  came  to  England, 
and  there  received  his  instructions,  without  heart  and  without 
belief  in  anything  he  was  about  to  do:  realising  Grobo  as 
the  supreme  egoist,  as  what  a  schoolboy  might  describe  as 
"  a  comic  little  cuss  " ;  realising  him  also  as  something  com- 
pletely ruthless;  a  power  with  men  enough  still  at  his  com- 
mand— this  snippet  of  a  hungry-faced  boy,  if  everyone  else 
failed  him — to  pinch  out  his,  Vortonitch's  life,  as  one  may 
pinch  out  the  flame  of  a  candle,  should  he  dare  to  fail  him. 

Mrs.  Grobo  was  not  with  them.  When  Vortonitch  last 
heard  of  her,  she  had  been  in  Berlin,  busied  over  the  education 
of  her  children — among  other  things ;  and  this  separation  from 
his  family  seemed  to  have  completed  the  de-humanising  of  the 
little  man,  though  there  were  times  when  he  spoke  of  them 
with  the  deepest  affection,  growing  sentimental  over  that 
home  which  he  had  destroyed  when  England  became  altogether 
too  hot  to  hold  him. 

The  first  coherent  question  which  Laura  asked  her  husband 
on  this  afternoon,  when  they  met  so  altogether  by  chance,  con- 
cerned the  Grobos;  and  when  he  answered  evasively  that  he 
had  not  seen  the  family  for  some  time,  she  took  it  for  granted 
that  this  included  them  all,  and  remarked: 

"  I'm  glad.  I  like  Mrs.  Grobo,  and  I  love  the  children,  but 
I  don't  like  him.  He — somehow,  he  gives  me  the  creeps. 
And  there  must  be  something  queer  about  him,  Paul.  I  went 
to  his  place — oh,  when  was  it? — early  this  spring;  I  thought 
I  might  hear  something  about  you;  and  I  found  the  whole  of 
the  top  burnt  away." 

"My  dear,  let's  hope  it  was  insured!"  remarked  Vorton- 
itch, with  a  flicker  of  his  old  mockery,  half  turning  his  head, 
looking  down  at  her;  amused  by  her  simplicity  and  yet 
anxious.  What  did  she  know?  Hang  it  all!  he  simply 
couldn't  bear  that  she  should  know  anything  of  what  he 
thought  of  as  "  all  that  business." 

"  Of  course,  that  was  nothing,  really.  But  a  policeman 
who  was  watching  me  asked  me  all  sorts  of  questions;  then 
took  me  off  to  Scotland  Yard.  It — it — well,  it  was  rather 
horrid." 


292  LAURA  CREICHTON 

"To  Scotland  Yard!  You?  You?  Laura!  By  God, 
if  this  isn't  too  much!  A  pretty  state  for  things  to  come  to! 
You — my  darling!  I — well,  I  don't  know  what  to  say.  This 
beats  everything."  He  was  genuinely  amazed,  hurt,  as  the 
aggressor  against  society  is,  should  the  forces  of  law  and 
order  retort  upon  him  or  his.  To  dare  to  question  his  wife! 
It  was  shameful!  The  sort  of  thing  to  drive  a  man  to — well, 
to  anything.  And  when  this  was  just  what  he'd  been  trying 
to  keep  her  clear  of;  was  beginning  to  think  that  he  had  gone 
away  on  purpose  to  keep  her  clear  of. 

"Oh,  I  don't  suppose  that  it  had  anything  really  to  do 
with  me,"  went  on  Laura,  sobered  by  his  exuberant  anger; 
feeling,  as  she  always  had  done,  that  it  was  somehow  "  up  to  " 
her  to  stand  between  her  husband  and  any  of  this  rushing  off 
with  the  bit  between  his  teeth.  "  It  was  because  I  knew  the 
Grobos,  was  asking  about  them;  I'm  sure  of  that,  though 
they  heckled  me,  too.  There  was  a  second  man,  in  some 
superior  position,  at  Scotland  Yard,  who  questioned  and 
questioned  mt. — Paul,  it  worried  me,  because  the  Grobos  were 
friends  of  yours;  and  afterwards  Mr.  Stratton  said,  seemed  to 
think,  that  they  might  drag  you  into  it  all." 

"And  what  the  devil  had  Stratton  to  do  with  it,  eh?" 

"  I  got  them  to  send  for  him ;  someone  had  to  swear  to 
who  I  really  was — I  heard  them  speak  of  '  this  man  Grobo  * — 
'dangerous.'  Paul,  I  believe  I  hate  him;  but  dangerous! 
That  funny  little  tubby  thing!  They  said  that  the  Home 
Secretary  and  the  Head  of — oh,  some  special  department — 
had  it  in  hand,  but  that  he  was  too  clever  for  them." 

"All  the  same,  I  don't  see  what  business  it  was  of  Strat- 
ton's,"  persisted  Vortonitch,  childishly  jealous,  as  he  had 
always  been,  of  Gerald  Stratton:  the  man  who  had  as  many 
brains  and  so  many  more  advantages  than  he  himself. 

"Dear,  I  told  you:  there  had  to  be  someone."  Laura 
spoke  gently,  for  she  had  patience  with  him,  understood  him 
when  he  was  like  this;  and,  besides,  his  misery  was  so 
palpable.  "  I  was  determined  not  to  have  mother  worried. 
Perhaps  it  was  my  name." 

"Your  name?  Oh,  so  they  knew  your  name,  did  they?" 
he  began  loudly;  and  then  quite  suddenly  laughed:  "And  I 
wonder  what  they  thought  of  my  wife,  my  beautiful  wife." 

"  It  wasn't  very  pleasant,  I  can  tell  you.  I  felt  .  .  .  Oh, 
I  think  there  was  nothing  that  I  felt  I  mightn't  be  guilty  of." 

"  Darling,  I'm  sure  it  wasn't  pleasant.  Don't  let's  talk 
of  it;  it's  over  and  done  with." 


LAURA  CREICHTON  293 

"But  what  did  they  think  Grobo  had  done?" 

"Oh,  well,  you  saw — probably  suspected  arson,  or  some- 
thing like  that."  He  gave  a  restless  movement  of  his  head, 
oddly  like  some  wild  and  graceful  animal.  "  Oh,  hang  Grobo! 
Laura,  beloved,  why  waste  a  moment  talking  of  anyone  else, 
when  we  have  so  frightfully  little  time?"  Something  driven 
and  desperate  showed  itself  at  the  back  of  his  impatience: 
"So  little  time — so  little  time!"  That  sense  of  fatalism  was 
over  him  again:  if  only  he  could  encompass  everything, 
everything  in  life  within  this  moment!  "Laura,  I  love  you, 
I  love  you.  Why  let  ourselves  be  worried  by  anything 
else?" 

He  tried  to  draw  her  closer,  but  she  pressed  back  against 
his  arm,  staring  at  him  with  scared  eyes:  "So  little  time? 
What  do  you  mean?" 

"Well,  now,  and  like  this." 

"But  what  do  you  mean?  Paul,  what  do  you  mean? 
Oh,  don't  laugh — don't!  You're  not  really  laughing,  and  I 
can't  bear  it;  it's  hateful!  You  can't  laugh  like  that  about 
things  that  matter:  laugh,  and  go  away — go  on  going  away — 
or  cry  and  go  away;  and  all  meaning  nothing,  all  the  same 
thing."  She  had  drawn  herself  definitely  apart  from  him,  her 
hands  twisted  together.  "I  can't  bear  it,  because  it's  not  real 
and  it's  past  bearing." 

"Laura!" 

"Yes,  yes,  it  is  past  bearing;  it's  belittling  for  me  to 
pretend  not  to  be  married,  and  for  you  .  .  .  Oh,  what  do  you 
pretend?  That's  what  makes  it  so  awful.  I  know  nothing. 
It's  like  living  among  shadows.  It  would  be  awful  with 
anyone,  but  with  the  person  one  loves  .  .  .  You  go  away, 
disappear;  and  then  suddenly  here  you  are,  back  in  London, 
and  do  not  even  let  me  know,  though  I'm  your  wife — really 
your  wife,  pretending  to  be  a  girl  like  the  others.  I  meet  you 
here  by  chance,  like — oh,  like  anyone  else;  and  you  expect  me 
to  feel,  to  be  just  the  same  in  every  sort  of  way:  loving,  sym- 
pathising. It's  like — why,  it's  like  nothing  more  than  a 
'  turn '  at  a  music-hall.  You  feel  you  can  go  away,  and  come 
back  and  find  everything  the  same  again!  Well,  you  can't — 
that's  all;  you  can't!  Oh,  Paul,  do  you  mean  to  say  you 
don't  see  that,  though  it  may  be  the  same  outside,  it's  not  the 
same  really  and  truly?  It  can't  be,  it  can't:  one  can't  go 
on  like  that." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"  Feeling  the  same.    One  changes,  one  must  change.    One 


294  LAURA  CREICHTON 

can't  start  again  suddenly,  like  this — not  if  you  do  it  again: 
not  twice  over;  never,  never  twice  over.  Months  and  months 
of  silence!  Oh,  cruel,  rotten!  not  even  wanting — that's  what 
makes  it  so  hopeless — not  even  wanting  to  know  anything 
about  me." 

"Laura,  Laura,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"One  can't;  that's  all — simply  can't  go  on.  Don't  you 
see?  Nothing  ever  is  the  same  again — all  broken  up  like 
this!"  Her  strange  passion  had  dropped  to  a  sort  of  sullenness, 
a  sense  of  desperate  depression. 

"Laura!     But  what  have  I  done?" 

"You  feel  like  that? — you  wonder  what  you  have  done!" 
She  repeated  the  words  with  that  blankness  which  comes  when 
one  realises  the  impossibility  of  grasping  the  twists  and  turns 
of  another's  mind,  finds  something  incredible  taken  as  a  matter 
of  fact.  Paul  was  happy  to  be  with  her;  and  he  wondered 
what  he  had  done,  where  he  had  failed  her:  honestly  won- 
dered! And  after  close  upon  seventeen  months  of  complete 
silence! 

"Laura,  I  love  you — believe  that;  anyhow,  believe  that, 
I  love  you."  Quite  suddenly  he  was  gentle,  deprecating, 
tender. 

"And  yet  you  can  talk  as  though  you  were  going  away 
again." 

"Only  for  this  evening,  this  one  night,  beloved:  there's 
something  I've  got  to  do.  But  to-morrow,  to-morrow,  upon 
my  oath — here  and  at  the  same  hour  .  .  .  Let  me  see;  what 
is  it?" 

He  took  her  wrist  and  turned  it  round  to  look  at  her  watch. 
"  Twenty  to  seven  .  .  .  Oh  no,  that's  too  late.  How  can  we 
wait  all  that  time?  Let  it  be  in  the  morning;  ten  in  the 
morning — and  we  will  go  away  together,  just  you  and  I  ... 
we'll  .  .  .  Laura,  it's  a  new  watch!  You  never  got  that 
other  one  out?" 

"No;  it  would  have  seemed  like — like  going  back  on 
things.  To-morrow — Paul,  you  promise?  Upon  your  word 
of  honour — to-morrow  morning?" 

"  I  swear  it — if  I'm  alive.  Laura,  I  think  if  I  was  dead 
I'd  come  just  the  same.  Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear!"  He  gazed 
at  her,  shaking  his  head,  overcome  with  an  intense  sense  of 
melancholy:  really  overcome,  not  enjoying  it  as  he  used  to 
do. 

"Paul  .  .  .  Look  here,  Paul;  if  I  let  you  go  now,  I  feel 
I  shall  never  see  you  again." 


LAURA  CREICHTON  295 

"Don't,  don't!     Don't  say  it;  don't  put  it  into  words!" 

"If  it  isn't  anything  very  particular  this  evening,  I  don't 
see  why — Paul,  is  it  very  particular?" 

"A  promise." 

"  Oh,  then,  if  it's  a  promise  .  .  .  And  I  suppose  to-morrow 
will  soon  come.  Only  .  .  ."  She  broke  off,  shivering.  "  It 
must  have  grown  colder;  or  is  it  the  damp  from  the  lake? 
Oh,  I  must  go.  To-morrow — to-morrow  morning.  'I'm  glad 
it's  not  the  afternoon;  nothing  much  can  happen  between 
now  and  ten  o'clock  to-morrow.  Luckily  we're  going  out 
to-night,  and  that  will  help  to  pass  the  time." 

"You  alone? — you  and  your  mother?" 

"  No ;  she's  away.  *  The  House '  is  shut  up.  We  won't  be 
so  very  far  from  each  other,  after  all,  Paul,"  she  added,  all 
her  anger  burnt  out;  sad  and  wistful.  "I'm  up  in  London, 
in  Pont  Street,  with  Lady  Filson,  Stratty's  sister." 

"  Stratty  again,  the  great  Stratty !  And  why  this,  may  I 
ask?" 

"  Just  to  go  out — to  have  someone  to  go  about  with." 

"Oh,  well  .  .  ."  He  made  a  movement  as  though  to 
shrug  something  aside,  gave  a  little  laugh:  "Oh,  well,  well, 
so  long  as  I  am  here  to  take  you  away  from  it  all,  this  fashion- 
able world!  You  look  like  it,  do  you  know? — you've  grown 
to  look  like  it,  my  beautiful."  He  pinched  up  a  bit  of  the 
material  of  her  gown  between  his  finger  and  thumb,  looked  at 
it,  smiling.  "  Such  a  swell  as  you  are!  The  fashionable 
world — society  and  my  wife!  Laura,  Laura,  what  a  mix-up 
it  all  is!" 

They  had  moved  onto  the  bridge  by  now,  and,  leaning 
against  the  parapet,  he  turned,  facing  her,  gazing  into  her 
eyes  with  an  air  of  mocking  melancholy.  "  My  God!  I  wonder 
what  they'd  do  with  me  in  that  milieu,  eh,  Laura?  And  what 
you'd  do  with  me,  eh?  What  will  you  do  with  me?  Will 
you — Laura,  you  made  me  promise  that  I'd  be  here  to-morrow; 
but  you?  What  of  you?  What  of  you?" 

"Of  course  I'll  be  here." 

"But  swear  it.  No,  no;  you  needn't.  There's  that 
about  you,  among  everything  else — you'd  never  break  a 
promise  you'd  made  me.  You're  a  fine  creature,  Laura.  But 
to-night  .  .  .  Oh,  I  hate  to  think  of  to-night.  If  only  we 
could  cut  it  out,  throw  it  away!  Where  are  you  going,  and 
what  finery  are  you  going  to  wear?  That's  pretty  enough  for 
anything;  but  an  evening  dress!  To  think  that  I've  never 
seen  my  Laura  in  a  low-necked  gown;  and  now  fellows  who 


296  LAURA  CREICHTON 

have  no  right  to  see  an  inch  more  than  your  face — not  even 
that — women  should  be  veiled,  all  women  who  are  worth 
loving — will  be  gloating  over  you:  arms  and  neck  and  breast." 

"They  don't  Paul!" 

"Oh,  they  do.  People  try  to  pretend  that  men  aren't 
beasts,  but  they  are;  or  the  world  would  come  to  an  end. 
Oh,  well,  this  once;  it's  only  until  to-morrow." 

"  It's  a  new  frock,  Paul.  I  wish  you  could  see  me  in  it." 
She  gave  a  girlish  laugh,  her  face  flushed.  "Pink  tulle  and 
silver;  the  palest,  palest  pink.  It's  a  gala  night,  you  know." 

He  drew  a  little  back  and  stared  at  her  oddly:  "A  gala 
night — where?" 

"At  the  Opera.  The  King  and  Queen  are  going  to  be 
there." 

"So  you're  going  to  the  Opera — to-night?      To-night!" 

"Why? — are   you   going?      Paul,   are  you   going,   too?" 

"Yes,  yes — perhaps.    Who  knows?" 

"Then  why  .  .  ."  She  puckered  her  brow  and  gazed  at 
him,  anxious  and  puzzled,  for  his  face  had  an  odd,  stiffened 
look,  more  grey  than  white:  yes,  that  was  it — grey  like  the 
stones  of  the  bridge,  the  chill  shadows  creeping  over  every- 
thing. "Paul,  what  is  it?" 

"Nothing,  nothing — but  when  one  cares  very  much  .  .  ." 
He  broke  off,  overcome  by  a  sense  of  horror,  a  sudden  wild 
fear  and  desire  for  flight;  pierced  through  by  that  faculty 
he  had  always  had  of  picturing  things :  seeing  himself  and  his 
wife  both  at  the  Opera,  though  not  together.  At  the  Opera, 
this  night  of  all  nights!  It  was  funny.  Oh,  after  all,  it  was 
funny,  thank  goodness!  damned  funny!  He,  and  this  wife 
of  his — at  the  Opera,  under  the  wing  of  a  Cabinet  Minister's 
sister — enough  to  make  a  cat  laugh,  that,  if  only  one  knew. 
.  .  .  Well,  if  one  did  know — if  any  of  them,  resting  before  the 
excitement  of  the  evening,  preparing  their  fine  clothes,  dining 
together — did  know?  He  threw  back  his  head,  stiffening  with 
his  old  sense  of  supremacy,  godship:  after  all,  it  was  he  who 
would  be  the  figure  of  the  evening;  after  all,  any  man,  any 
simple,  obscure  man,  any  fool  who  dealt  death  to  a  king  was 
twice  a  king,  mastering  kings.  For  a  moment  the  old  gran- 
diloquent thought  held  him;  then  that  sense  of  impending 
disaster  fell  over  him  afresh,  weighing  him  down  with  a  chill, 
flat  dejection.  He  put  out  his  hand  and  touched  Laura's, 
lying  along  the  coping  of  the  bridge,  almost  timidly,  with 
clammy  fingers, 

"Beloved,  when  you  get  out  of  the  carriage,  motor,  or 


LAURA  CREICHTON  297 

whatever  it  is,  going  into  the  Opera  House  this  evening,  drop 
your  cloak  off  your  shoulders,  so  that  I  can  see  you  for  a 
moment — you  in  your  pale  pink  frock." 

"Yes,  yes — and  perhaps  I  shall  see  you,  too." 

"  I  don't  suppose  so ;  but  I  shall  be  there.  Now  you  must 
go.  I  can't  kiss  you  here,  embrace  you,  my  Laura;  but  I'm 
glad  of  that.  That  would  frighten  me,  weaken  me.  Too 
much  like  a  last  embrace,  eh,  Laura?"  He  gave  an  oddly 
broken  laugh,  his  dark  eyes  in  the  arched  hollows  fixed  on 
her  with  a  look  of  despair  and  famine.  "  Now  go ;  I'll  stay 
here  and  watch  you  go." 

"  But,  Paul,  why " 

"Go!  go  now!"  He  spoke  almost  sharply.  "Oh,  for 
goodness'  sake  don't  make  it  harder!" 

Fifty  feet  or  so  away,  Laura  turned  her  head,  and  glancing 
back,  saw  that  Vortonitch,  a  grey-faced  man  in  shabby  grey 
clothes,  leaning  sideways  against  the  bridge,  gazing  after  her, 
had  taken  out  his  handkerchief  and  was  wiping  his  hands 
upon  it. 

Half-dazed,  she  walked  across  the  Park,  turned  up  Picca- 
dilly. Only  when  she  was  actually  mounting  the  steps  of 
Lady  Filson's  club  did  she  realise  time  in  any  sort  of  way 
apart  from  Paul  and  herself.  It  was  seven  o'clock,  and 
dinner  was  at  half-past.  Hailing  a  taxi,  she  got  into  it,  telling 
the  man  to  make  as  much  haste  as  possible;  overwhelmed  by 
that  sense  of  pressure  which  comes  to  a  person  who  awakes 
suddenly  and  over-late;  a  desperate  desire  to  get  over  the 
business  of  dressing,  dinner,  the  Opera,  the  hours  of  the  night 
as  quickly  as  possible.  A  feeling  of  fear  and  haste  and  des- 
perate determination,  as  though  by  a  sort  of  pushing  through 
time  she  could  push  aside  all  danger  and  doubt,  shoving  it 
away. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

As  Laura  got  out  of  the  motor  in  the  eddying  wake  of  Lady 
Filson  that  evening,  she  allowed  her  cloak  to  slip  from  one  shoul- 
der; reasonably  enough,  for  her  ankle-short  dress  of  pink  and 
silver,  above  silver  shoes  and  palest  pink  silk  stockings,  had  a 
tag  of  a  train  like  an  over-long-sash,  which  needed  manipulation. 

There  was  a  crowd  at  either  side  of  the  shallow  steps  with 
the  crimson  carpet,  roped  back  with  thick  crimson  ropes:  a 
flat  wall  of  darkly-clad  figures,  and  faces  which  were  greenish- 
white  where  they  were  untouched  by  the  light  from  the 
lamps,  orange-tinted,  immediately  beneath  them:  apathetic 
and  vacant  enough,  and  yet,  on  the  whole,  more  contented 
than  they  had  been  the  year  before.  Glancing  from  side  to 
side,  and  seeing  no  sign  of  Vortonitch — though  his  face  as  she 
had  seen  it  last  was  so  clear  in  her  mind's  eye  that  it  seemed 
to  float  like  a  mirage  between  herself  and  the  rest  of  the  world, 
more  real,  more  closely  present  than  any  other  there — Laura 
hesitated  upon  the  top  step,  had  turned,  gazing,  when  Lady 
Fileon  stretched  back  a  hand  and  touched  her  arm. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  and  moved  on,  while  the  girl,  with  a 
sense  of  some  deep  and  fatal  loss,  turning,  followed  her, 
melting  in  among  the  other  luxuriously-gowned  women  and 
men  with  gleaming  white  shirt-fronts,  their  overcoats  thrown 
over  their  arms — for  after  the  chilly  evening,  it  was  once  more 
almost  unbearably  close — with  a  feeling  as  though  she  were 
being  drowned,  pressed  down  and  under  by  humanity. 

As  she  entered  the  vestibule,  friends  were  exchanging 
greetings  with  Lady  Filson,  people  were  talking  all  round  her: 
people,  people,  nothing  but  people,  like  a  stifling  curtain 
dropped  down  between  herself  and  the  real  world. 

As  they  mounted  the  stairs  and  were  moving  along  the 
corridor,  that  wild  desire  for  flight  which  had  overcome 
Vortonitch  the  same  evening  swept  over  her :  for  a  moment  she 
paused,  almost  at  the  door  of  the  box,  and  drew  a  sharp  breath, 
clutching  her  cloak  with  one  hand,  her  train  with  the  other,  and 
half -turned.  She  must  get  away  out  of  this;  she  must,  she 
must.  It  was  stifling,  unbearable;  everyone  smelt  of  scent. 
Oh,  she  must  get  out,  into  the  open,  find  Vortonitch,  drag  him 
away  from — what? — where?  Get  between  him  and — what? 
She  did  not  know;  she  knew  nothing,  could  not  think  plainly, 
stupefied  by  a  sense  of  inexpressible  and  reasonless  panic. 

298 


LAURA  CREICHTON  299 

Stratton,  who  had  joined  the  party,  touched  her  arm: 
"Lolly,  what  is  it?" 

She  turned  to  him,  her  eyes  dark  with  pain  and  fear;  her 
white  lips  moved  stiffly,  though  no  words  came. 

"  Oh,  Gerry ! "  Lady  Filson  caught  her  brother's  arm : 
"Gerry,  I  quite  forgot;  I  said  I'd  wait  in  the  foyer  for  Hilda 
Stracey.  Do  go  back  and  find  her,  there's  a  dear;  she'll  be 
alone.  Come  along,  Laura." 

For  a  moment  Stratton  hesitated,  glancing  at  Laura: 
"What  is  it,  Lolly?  Is  there  anything  on  earth  I  can  do? 
You  know  .  .  ." 

But  she  had  turned  her  head  aside  and,  shaking  it  without 
looking  at  him,  followed  in  his  sister's  wake,  her  bright  hair 
with  its  silver  fillet  showing  above  the  crowd. 

Something  must  have  happened;  something  in  connection 
with  Vortonitch,  for  he  alone  could  bring  that  look  to  Laura's 
face.  "Confound  that  fellow!"  thought  Stratton,  moving 
down  the  stairs,  his  lips  set  tightly,  his  head  high,  searching 
the  crowd  for  an  auburn  head,  that  sort  of  elaborate  head- 
dress which  Lady  Stracey  affected. 

He  caught  sight  of  her  as  he  reached  the  lower  steps, 
signalling  to  him,  excitedly  moving  her  lips,  pantomiming 
despair.  For  she  was  just  too  late:  the  stairway  and  the 
centre  entrance  were  being  cleared.  The  Opera  House  attend- 
ants pressed  back  the  loiterers.  Through  the  widely-opened 
doors  he  could  see  the  police  either  side  of  the  steps;  the 
semi-circle  of  the  crowd,  the  buildings  opposite;  orange  and 
yellow  lights;  a  plaque  of  indigo  sky  patched  with  chimneys. 

There  was  a  distant,  rather  faint,  cheer;  the  hoot  of  a 
motor.  As  Stratton  slipped  from  the  bottom  step  of  the 
stair  and  rounded  the  corner  of  the  balustrade,  a  woman  with 
a  towering  head-dress  was  in  front  of  him,  blocking  his  view. 

He  heard  the  royal  motor  stop;  there  was  another  and 
louder  cheer;  that  odd  fluttering  murmur,  like  a  waving  ban- 
ner, which  accompanies  such  moments.  He  fancied  that  he 
saw  the  Queen's  elaborately-waved  fair  head  and  white  aigrette 
as  she  stepped  out  of  the  motor. 

As  the  woman  in  front  of  him  craned  upon  tip-toe,  shutting 
out  everything,  there  was  the  sound  of  two  quick  shots,  one  upon 
another;  then,  after  a  pause,  another;  followed  by  an  extraor- 
dinary series  of  cries.  For  a  moment  the  people  in  the  vestibule 
surged  forward,  and  others  came  running  down  the  stairs,  while 
Stratton,  moving  sideways,  pressed  his  way  towards  the  door. 

A  moment  before,  he  could  have  sworn  that  his  thoughts 
had  been  of  nothing  apart  from  the  coming  of  royalty;  the 


300  LAURA  CREICHTON 

boredom  of  being  kept  waiting,  Hilda  Stracey's  tiresome  late 
arrival:  that  the  very  thought  of  Laura  had  been  frayed  out 
of  him  by  this  petty  exasperation. 

At  the  first  shot,  however,  his  thoughts — amazingly 
personal  for  such  a  man — were  with  her;  and  then,  like  a 
dart  winged  by  that  look  which  he  had  seen  upon  her  face, 
they  lighted  upon  Vortonitch. 

As  he  moved  forward,  the  well-dressed  crowd  made  way 
for  him.  He  heard  his  own  name,  "  Stratton,"  "  Mr.  Stratton  " 
— or  again  from  some  more  personal  acquaintance:  "What  is 
it?  Oh,  Mr.  Stratton,  what  is  it?" 

The  tumult  outside  had  dropped  to  a  murmurous  roar 
which  might  have  been  anything:  a  cheer,  a  threat,  or  a  mere 
breath  of  overwhelming  emotion. 

Stratton  was  at  the  door,  rounding  it,  when  he  was  pressed 
back  by  a  tall,  heavily-built  attendant,  and  the  King  and 
Queen  entered,  bowing,  smiling,  from  side  to  side,  as  though 
nothing  out  of  the  way  had  happened;  upon  which,  with  a 
pang  of  self-reproach,  Stratton  realised  that  he  had  either 
forgotten  about  them  or  taken  the  worst  for  granted. 

As  their  suite  followed,  moving  smoothly  and  imperturb- 
ably  with  the  splendid  mechanism  of  the  English,  there  was  a 
murmur  of  admiration  and  relief;  the  sound  of  a  swelling 
cheer  from  the  road  outside,  broken  again  by  that  curious 
sullen  roar:  "Like  an  animal,"  thought  Stratton;  and  then, 
again:  "An  angry  mob!"  while  his  mind  rebounded,  once 
again,  to  Laura — Laura's  husband.  Was  this  what  she  had 
meant?  Was  this  what  she  had  thought,  dreaded? 

As  he  pushed  his  way  through  the  dense  crowd  under  the 
lights  upon  the  outer  steps,  eddying  away  into  darkness,  wave 
upon  wave  of  people,  he  was  curiously  ready  for  what  he  saw. 

"Two  shots  at  his  Majesty,  then  turned  it  upon  'isself," 
volunteered  one  policeman,  as  Stratton  was  held  back;  passed 
on;  then  held  back,  and  passed  on  again. 

The  crowd  had  dropped  its  roar  by  the  time  he  reached  the 
inner  ring  and  was  recognised  by  the  King's  personal  detective, 
who  motioned  him  forward. 

Vortonitch  was  lying  half  on  the  edge  of  the  pavement  and 
half  over  it,  with  blood  from  a  wound  in  his  breast  falling  into 
the  gutter,  caking  the  dust.  Some  men  had  come  up  with  a 
hand-ambulance — too  late  for  a  living  man,  too  soon  for  a 
dead  man — and  the  doctor  kneeling  at  Vortonitch's  side 
motioned  them  away;  then,  bending  lower,  thinking  that  the 
pulse  beneath  his  fingers  had  flickered  out,  felt  it  leap  with  a 
sudden  spurt  of  vitality,  and  following  the  movement  of  the 


LAURA  CREICHTON  301 

still  bright  eyes,  realised  a  tall  thin  man  in  evening  dress,  with 
a  long,  thin,  white  face,  and  beckoned  him  nearer. 

"  I  think  he  wants  to  speak  to  you — if  he  can." 

As  Stratton  knelt  and  bent  low,  so  as  to  catch  the  dying  man's 
last  words,  the  white  faces  and  dark  forms  of  the  crowd  seemed 
to  sway,  swinging  round  him,  amid  a  silence  so  intense  that  he 
could  hear  their  breath;  while  the  boots  of  the  policeman 
standing  nearest  to  him  gave  out  a  faint,  long-drawn  squeak. 

"Laura  .  .  ."  began  Vortonitch,  and  then  stopped. 
There  was  blood  round  his  mouth,  and  one  of  the  policemen, 
stooping,  wiped  it  away  with  his  own  handkerchief. 

"Lungs,"  said  someone;  the  word,  isolated  as  it  was, 
sounding  as  irrelevant  as  though  it  had  nothing  whatever  to 
do  with  the  matter. 

"Laura  .  .  .  tell  .  .  ." 

Stratton  bent  still  lower:  "Shall  I  fetch  her?" 

He  dreaded  the  answer,  but  Vortonitch  shook  his  head. 

"It  ought  .  .  ."  he  began;  paused,  gasping,  and  then 
started  again,  "should  .  .  .  have  been  a  ...  bomb,  you 
know.  ...  I  ...  I  ...  all  right  with — with  that  .  .  . 
there's  no  one  else.  .  .  ."  He  closed  his  eyes,  and  there  was 
another  long  break.  When  he  opened  them  again,  they  were 
veiled  with  death,  though  something  of  his  old  mocking  smile 
twisted  his  lips:  "Rotten  .  .  .  shot  always  .  .  .  always  .  .  . 
But  she  .  .  .  she  said  .  .  .  she  would  be  here  .  .  .  thought 
it  ...  it  ...  safer  .  .  .  for  her  .  ,  .  Laura  ...  in  her 
pink  gown.  .  .  .  Tell  her  ...  I  saw  her  .  .  .  tell  her  .  .  ," 

His  face  was  convulsed;  something  in  his  agonised  eyes 
seemed  to  beseech  Stratton,  and  he  half  rose. 

"I'll  fetch  her,"  he  said;  his  reluctance  of  a  moment 
before  swept  away,  half  impatient  with  Laura  for  not  being 
there;  for  knowing  so  much,  as  betrayed  in  that  look  of  hers, 
and  not  knowing  this. 

He  was  turning,  when,  with  a  surprising  spurt  of  strength, 
Vortonitch  caught  at  his  arm,  half -raised  himself,  jerked  back 
his  head  in  his  old  fashion,  and  threw  round  him  a  long  glance 
of  bitterest  hatred  and  contempt,  sweeping  the  stolid  forms  of 
the  policemen,  the  flat,  disc-like  and  utterly  unexpressioned 
faces  of  the  crowd  which  stood  watching  him  die. 

"Not  .  .  .  not  ..."  A  froth  of  blood  was  round  his 
mouth,  but  he  swept  it  away  with  one  hand,  supporting 
himself  upon  one  elbow,  his  head  high. 

"Not — for  God's  sake — front  of  that — canaille!"  he  cried; 
and  fell  back,  crumpling  up  into  a  heap;  while  the  doctor  rose 
to  his  feet,  and  beckoned  forward  the  men  with  the  ambulance. 


EPILOGUE 

"LAURA,  what  was  he?  You're  constantly  thinking  of 
him;  you've  been  thinking  of  him  now.  What  was  he?  Are 
you  ever  any  nearer  understanding?" 

Stratton,  with  his  pen  in  his  hand,  seated  at  his  writing- 
table,  but  not  writing,  had  been  watching  his  wife  for  a  good 
five  minutes,  her  fair  head  raised  as  though  listening,  a  trick 
— as  he  realized — caught  from  Vortonitch;  the  window  of  his 
study,  tall  and  narrow,  framing  her,  the  plane-tree  outside, 
with  its  flat  and  neutral-tinted  masses  of  shade,  silhouetting 
her  out,  clear-cut  and  delicate. 

Their  thoughts  were  running  parallel,  as  they  so  often  did ; 
he  felt  this,  for  they  were  extraordinarily  in  unity.  Until 
they  were  married  three  months  earlier,  and  close  upon  two 
years  after  Paul  Vortonitch's  death,  Stratton  had  been  half 
afraid  of  Laura's  youth.  But  this,  he  found,  was  a  matter  of 
actual  years,  nothing  more;  he  owed  that  much  to  his  prede- 
cessor, anyhow.  After  all,  come  to  think  of  it,  there  was  no 
end  to  what  he  owed  him;  he  realised  this  with  his  usual 
whimsical  philosophy:  among  other  things,  a  wide  tolerance, 
a  sort  of  quiet  benignity  not  merely  bridging  but  obliterating 
the  gap  between  twenty-two  and  forty-three.  In  addition  to 
this,  Laura  was  glad  to  be  safe,  to  be  at  peace — and  that,  too, 
was  Vortonitch's  doing — yet  always  a  little  scared  of  life;  so 
that,  with  their  positions  reversed,  she  was  to  Gerald  Stratton 
as  much  his  child  and  wife  as  Vortonitch  had  been,  in  those 
days  which  were  passed,  at  once  her  child  and  her  lover; 
wiping  out  her  girlhood  with  a  burden  of  care  and  tenderness. 

She  was  happy,  too;  though,  at  the  beginning,  tentative, 
and  half  afraid  of  it  all:  happy,  as  Stratton  himself 
was  happy;  happy  and  secure  enough — though  not 
until  she  was  safely  his  wife — to  embrace  the  memory  of 
Vortonitch  himself  in  his  old  way  of  speculating,  weighing, 
considering  all  sides  of  every  question;  content  to  realise 
that  his  wife's  thoughts  were  often  enough  harking  back  to 
her  first  husband.  Confound  it  all,  that  was  the  trick  the 
fellow  held;  one  could  not  help  thinking  about  him.  Absurd 

302 


LAURA  CREICHTON  303 

as  it  seemed,  he,  Stratton  himself,  had  a  habit  of  speculating 
over  him  with  a  sort  of  amused  tenderness.  After  all,  how 
much  he  had  missed  of  life — or  seemed  to  miss;  for  was  it  not 
possible  that  he  had  squeezed  out  more  than  most  people  in 
his  own  lawless  and  erratic  way?  There  you  were!  You  no 
sooner  arrived  at  one  decision  regarding  him  than  the  very 
opposite  showed  itself  as  far  more  likely. 

At  one  time  Stratton  had  actually  begun  to  set  down  a  sort 
of  summary  of  it  all:  a  series  of  questions  and  answers, 
ending  in  nothing  but  questions. 

Was  he  a  tool,  more  or  less  innocent?  Was  he  really 
innocent  in  the  realisation  of  his  acts?  Did  he  care  twopence 
about  liberty,  equality,  the  overthrow  of  imaginary  tyrants, 
the  people?  Of  course  not.  Remember  that  "  canaille!" 
Was  all  this  Nihilism  a  game,  then;  or  a  love  of  excitement, 
or  a  lust  of  blood,  second  to  Grobo's?  Did  he  feel  sweetly, 
passionately,  shallowly,  or  not  at  all?  Could  he  love  or  hate, 
or  did  he  just  pretend  to  both?  That  "canaille!" — ah!  there 
was  hatred;  there  you  had  him.  But  there,  only.  For  the 
rest?  Which  side  of  him — that  known  to  Laura,  to  Grobo, 
or  to  Grobo's  children — was  real?  Had  he  any  real  self? 
Was  he  just  a  bright  mirror,  throwing  back  any  sort  of  re- 
flection; or  an  inevitable  heliograph,  flashing  signals  of 
revolt;  a  burning-glass?  Was  he  cruel,  or  was  he  just  care- 
less, indifferent  to  pain? 

He  had  a  name  and  a  form,  but  he  had  no  country  and  no 
definite  nationality.  Who  was  he?  What  was  he?  Stratton 
had  written  down  this  question  as  he  put  it  to  Laura;  placing 
it  first,  numbering  it:  I.  What  was  he?  A  question  still 
unanswered,  as  the  rest  of  them.  For  Vortonitch  had  died  as 
he  lived,  most  curiously  and  completely  his  own.  His  career 
was  known,  at  least  in  part,  but  of  the  people  whom  he  had 
come  across,  of  his  lovers,  his  friends,  his  enemies — and  there 
must  have  been  many — there  was,  apart  from  the  Grobos, 
neither  sign  nor  tradition;  no  letter;  not  a  single  soul  to 
say,  "  I  knew  him  as  a  child  " — "  a  youth  " — "  I  remember 
his  parents  " — "  his  relatives  " :  no  photo,  though  if  there  had 
been,  what  could  it  have  shown?  The  name  of  the  photog- 
rapher, perhaps,  but  nothing  whatever  of  Vortonitch  himself, 
with  his  flashing  changes  of  expression,  pose. 

Come  to  that,  what  help  would  it  have  been  to  meet  a  man 
who  said,  "I  knew  him"?  With  the  word  "knew"  as 
comparative  as  it  must  have  been? 

"What  was  he?" 


304  LAURA  CREICHTON 

"  I  don't  know,  Gerry.  I  don't  know.  One  can't  think 
clearly  when  one  thinks  of  him.  I  loved  him;  in  a  way  I  love 
him  now — one  must,  you  know.  But  I  never  understood 
him;  I  understand  him  less  and  less.  Perhaps,  Gerry,  perhaps 
it's  this :  that  no  one  ever  can  understand  a  person  who  under- 
stands himself  so  little." 

To  die  in  the  gutter — so  literally,  too:  a  failure  as  a 
regicide,  a  success  as  a  suicide,  tenderly  remembered  by  your 
widow,  the  wife  of  a  Cabinet  Minister;  and,  what  is  more 
incongruous,  brooded  over  with  a  sort  of  affectionate  tolerance 
by  your  successor  himself!  The  whole  thing  was  too  amazing, 
but — 

Oh,  well!  Grobo,  with  his  most  preposterous  pose  of 
universal  foreignness,  burning  his  fingers — more  than  that, 
burning  his  life  out — with  a  bomb  of  his  own  contriving, 
might,  and  with  more  truth,  have  summarised  him,  Vortonitch, 
as  he  summarised  himself  at  the  last: 

"La  fin  couronne  I'ceuvre." 


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